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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27998724">scum of the earth is a woman like me</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/morphineinatin/pseuds/morphineinatin'>morphineinatin</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Cheating, Drug Addiction, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Hélène/Anatole is mentioned but there is nothing going on between them I promise you all, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Infidelity, Internal Conflict, Internalized Homophobia, Intrusive Thoughts, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Overdosing, Period-Typical Sexism, Religious Imagery &amp; Symbolism, Seduction, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unreliable Narrator, because Hélène is in it so of course, kind of, tags will be updated as we go</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:07:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>29,187</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27998724</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/morphineinatin/pseuds/morphineinatin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>This woman is wicked. Powerfully so.</p><p>And yet, she is even more undeniable.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Marya Dmitryevna Akhrosimova/Elena "Hélène" Vasilyevna Kuragina</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Marya Dmitriyevna is not, on principle, a particularly adventurous woman. </p><p>She keeps to herself when she can, guards the group of those she allows herself to be close to with iron walls and dragon-like ferocity. If you are outside, a mere wish of luck will not get you in. And on the other hand, it is a vastly easier feat to be thrown out should she have, on the rare man’s almost impossible chance, misjudged your true character. </p><p>It is not as if she is a friendless lady, oh no; she is far from it, in fact. She has plenty of friends, close acquaintances, relatives she enjoys the company of. Perhaps not as many as Moscow’s youth would consider to be a minimum at best, but enough to satisfy her occasional need for company. </p><p>She likes to think of herself as a good friend as well. A good conversationalist, certainly.<br/>
Any silences in conversation between Marya and whoever she is talking with that time in particular are less of a dreary moment with nothing of note for one to say to the other, but rather a comfortable lull, a moment of peace for each to enjoy for themselves before discussion resumes.</p><p>To those she cares about, Marya rarely finds herself struggling for conversation, to struggle to discover her words to fill an empty space. And even if her chosen topics for conversation aren’t exactly the most exciting of talking matters, she enjoys herself and she has others who enjoy her just as much. </p><p>Besides, if she had such an overwhelming desire for more companions - which she does not, if I may remind you - where would she even go about finding respectable people nowadays? Certainly not in this part of the world, in this day and age. The youth, now, they are the worst offenders, with their idea of an introduction being to strip down to what is legal and throwing themselves and the first lustful gaze. </p><p>Those are the people that Marya keeps at an arms length. Those who leave nothing to the imagination, who view nothing sacred in the vow of marriage, who have not an ounce of faith in them. Those are the people that Marya would like to tie up with a rosary and leave them, letting them decide to either change their ways for better or waste away in a river of vodka and a bed of drugs. </p><p>Needless to say, she is not a woman many of those people would find approachable. </p><p>But still, she has friends. She has friends that she does deeply care about that care about her equally in return, as bizarrely extreme as her emotional spectrum can, at times, be. One in particular, who is as reserved as she is and keeps to himself just enough for him to stay tolerable at worst in her book. Yes, she likes a Pierre, they are a good match. Not romantically of course, no, she has not the time nor patience at her age for that. And even if she did, Pierre is, well, to put it politely, not her type. But she knew he wouldn’t go unmarried. He’s too rich and male for that outcome to befall him. So when she hears of his engagement, she is pleased for him. </p><p>The Kuragins. It is a name that does not ring an immediate bell for Marya. she has heard of them before, maybe she has not. Either way, their family name is not one she decides to remember as important, given how the daughter won’t be able to wear that title for much longer.</p><p>Elena is her name, as she learns from a quite noticeably excited Pierre. She is the middle child of that family and the only female child among the three. They are wealthy, too, considerably so. Not an uncommon story. A tale that has been already told, that one. </p><p>This outcome will not surprise Elena then. She will likely have been aware of what fate her marital status will inevitably and unavoidably meet from a considerably young age. Not that she herself is particularly far in terms of her adulthood, though. She’s barely reached her twenties. </p><p>It does not come as a surprise when Marya finds herself invited to the wedding her dear friend and a young woman that she - and, well, perhaps he - had never once before met. She knew her name. She knew that she was rich. At least her fiancé had met her father, that was a definite guarantee, or else who would have decided Pierre to be who his daughter was to be wed off to?</p><p>Despite her general lack of enthusiasm for social gatherings (with the very strong exception of church, of course, because she is not a godless woman, unlike most of Moscow, which is more than apparent with one mere glance at the way those creatures dress themselves, if you can even really call it dressing with so much exposed, oh heavens, what a misguided world is the one in which we live!) she also adores the people she conserves her affection for. It’s Pierre. They have been friends for... well, she’s lost count. </p><p>She is happy for Pierre and his mystery bride, a sweet albeit drab old friend of hers married at last was something that she would need to celebrate. Once in a time many years ago so was she. Married, I mean. And then, all of a sudden, she was not anymore. </p><p>It had come as quite a shock to her. It was always a possibility, of course, and it was one that she had naturally considered, and yet still when it happened, she had become uneasy. Unsure of her next step, where to balance that would not send her plummeting. She was lonely for a while, a week or so, but - and she would never speak a work of this to another soul - looking back on those days with constant, unyielding company, she realises that she doesn’t particularly miss it. She hardly did then either. </p><p>But Pierre could use some love in his life, some feminine affection, and hopefully, this will be the young woman to provide it for him. To provide him some genuine happiness, some devoted love, the family she has known he has always ached to start. It is hard for her to picture Pierre with children, with a son or a daughter in his arms, or gazing up at him while resting on his sleeping wife’s chest. </p><p>That is a good aspect of the youth of this Kuragina girl. A woman of Marya’s age cannot bear a child, that time for her has long since passed. But his fiancée - Elena, the darling - she is of the perfect age. </p><p>It would be worth noting that Marya had not seen Elena before the wedding itself. If Pierre had, it could only have been for a second or so before she was gone once more, because the sooner your beautiful young daughter is wed off to a rich man the better. And beauty always is the draw, isn’t it? For men especially, even if her dear friend was better, in her eyes, than most others. So when Elena walked out, the excitement that Marya had observed in her dear friend began to make some sort of sense. </p><p>She was beautiful. Dark hair up and away from her face. Brown eyes just as dark staring out from behind her veil. A slender form accentuated by the corset beneath her dress. And she seemed to know, somehow, even without the slightest of a glance to her side, just how envied she was in this moment. It showed in the way that she walked, the manner with which she held herself. Not because she was marrying Pierre, of course, but because she was every man’s dream and every woman’s ideal. Because she existed as herself and they did not. And Pierre, strangely as it was, must have been envied too, because this was almost his wife. </p><p>As for Marya, she couldn’t decide what she felt while she stood there, watching as Elena seemed to glide in her angelic white gown that looked more expensive than the very church itself. Elena is beautiful. That she knows for sure. Elena is beautiful. </p><p>But, as there is to every woman, there is more to Elena than her appearance alone. She has a beautiful voice as well, which Marya notices when she starts saying her vows, a lovely, soothing voice that suits her well. Still, though, such trivial things are not the matter here. It is not until the ceremony itself has concluded that this makes itself known to Marya. </p><p>Pierre’s people, his guests, suit her well. She talks for longer and more frequently than she had admittedly expected to. That being said, she also hadn’t anticipated how many people here she would already be at least acquainted with. She and Pierre do have similar tastes in many things. </p><p>At one point that evening she is introduced to the man who she discovers to be Elena’s father, though he speaks of his daughter so much more as a business transaction than his child that the relationship between them would be hard to figure out had she not been told so beforehand. The only hint for familial ties beyond the name lay in the physical similarities the man shared with his daughter. The dark hair, the dark eyes, the clothes so expensive that just wearing them seemed to be mocking the lower class. Even without having spoken to Elena, her father gives off a strikingly different first impression. The girl must take after her mother, in that case. </p><p>Marya leaves the discussion knowing as little about Pierre’s beautiful bride than she did when she had entered it. Most of her personality was either deliberately omitted by her father, or she is a nice, mundane match for her new husband after all. But she doubts it. Elena doesn’t seem it, looking at her, the way she held herself, her demeanour as she was undertaking a sacred vow before God. That was what told Marya the first was more likely to be the true option. Vastly so. </p><p>When interaction had been had with all those she had wished to interact with that night, Marya concluded that her exit now would be earned. She would not be the first to leave, thankfully, she wouldn’t want that sort of attention on herself. After making her rounds, saying her goodbyes, wishing the groom well with his new wife, all appeared to be over with, before a surprising sound alerted her. </p><p>“Excuse me?”</p><p>Marya turns her head to a mostly unfamiliar voice, the touch of a delicate hand on her shoulder startling her. </p><p>She didn’t have an expectation of who to find attempting to grab her attention, for it was too quick of an action for her to build one up for herself, but she thinks rightfully so that should she have formed one, Elena likely would have fallen to the bottom of her list. </p><p>Elena. Newlywed Elena, her ring still warming up to its place on her hand. Standing in front of Marya, of all people, a woman closer to her husband in age that she has never before spoken a word to. Speaking of him, actually, now that it is in Marya’s head, not once does she recall Elena at Pierre’s side since they were officially wed. She has probably been with Pierre more than his wife tonight. </p><p>There is something about meeting her up close that unnerves her lightly. The girl hardly felt real. The reality of her existence was undried in her mind, having only been made aware of her mere hours ago at the most. She was more of an idea, a face and a name kept separate from one another, than she was a fellow human in Marya’s mind. She knows that she shouldn’t think such things. Something about it feels impolite. But she does. Or she did, until she had appeared before her. And still, here she stood. </p><p>“My apologies if I’m upholding you, I meant to introduce myself earlier but the time slipped away from me. I’m Elena.”</p><p>Why introduce herself? There is not one person here who does not know who she is. It’s her wedding, after all. </p><p>“Marya Dmitriyevna.”</p><p>Elena smiles, and for whatever reason, Marya feels ever more unsettled by her. </p><p>“A pleasure to meet you,” Elena replies, and there is an indescribable hint of... something in that voice of hers.</p><p>“Ah, the pleasure is all mine,” Marya says, paying her unwarranted suspicious thoughts no mind. What is she thinking? What on earth has come over her, to be criticising this innocent newlywed’s mannerisms so harshly? 

“You look wonderful,” is what Marya decides to add rather quickly. She’s a youthful thing, this will be the height of compliments to her.

“Oh, thank you!” Elena accepts the compliment graciously. Clearly, she had been right. It is flattery that wins this girl over. Does Pierre know this? She cannot recall a single time in their rather long time as friends when he has given any real remark on somebody else’s appearance, let alone a compliment. Very far from the top of his list of priorities is appearance. 

 “My congratulations to you and Pierre, my dear. You are lucky to have him.”</p><p>“Mm. I’m sure he is very pleased by how this all worked out. We were hardly engaged two weeks, I do hope he isn’t an impatient man.”</p><p>Elena’s eyes glance downwards, focusing on Marya’s hand for such a brief moment any normal stranger would have ignored had they even noticed it at all. </p><p>“I hear you also have quite the fortune,” Elena continues when her gaze returns to meet Marya’s once more. Her tone has notably changed. Hasn’t it? Has her voice lowered? Have her eyelids done the same? Or is Marya just despicably overanalysing a girl trying to make a friend?</p><p>“Pierre has mentioned me?”</p><p>Elena ignores her question entirely. </p><p>“How does a charming woman such as yourself reach your age unmarried? Did your parents forget to give you away or did nobody want you?”</p><p>Now that, Marya is rather taken aback with. Has this girl been taught no manners? Has she been shown no discipline? She does not mean this with innocent intentions and an unfortunate choice of words, certainly no. There are only so many things one can excuse as a simple mistake </p><p>Marya, despite this, keeps her composure about herself as always, raising her head and straightening her back. </p><p>“I hardly think that is any of your business, Elena. Such private matters are not for your knowledge.”  </p><p>“Oh please, I meant no ill by it,” the girl continues, lying through her teeth as Marya decides. “I’m only curious to know how one gets out of,” she gestures to herself, “this. Did you make your fiancée hate you so much he refused you? I’d considered that one myself. Or were you not anybody’s type in your day? I believe you’d be quite the star attraction of Moscow in current times.”</p><p>“Whatever your motive, it is still wildly inappropriate for your to ask me such a thing. And on your wedding day!”</p><p>A devilish sort of smile takes form on Elena’s lips at that. This girl is, against all protests, getting deep underneath Marya’s skin, and that sharp little gaze of hers has noticed. </p><p>“You’re widowed, aren’t you?” </p><p>Marya isn’t sure how her face responded to the girl’s words, but undeniably, there was one of some sort, because Elena’s grin that was growing unbearably irritating grew only brighter. </p><p>“I could tell as much. Oh, what a life that must be! Getting all of the money from a marriage but none of the restrictions it traps you with.”</p><p>This is who her dear old friend has married? It is her ring she wears? It is his name she has taken? Clearly, Pierre has not met this... this changeling of a child. Surely he would have refused her if he had. Looking over her now, aware of what she thinks is an appropriate manner to conduct herself with, there is little beyond beauty she has to offer. And her money, of course, but Pierre has never been in need of more to add to his fortune. Pierre is a good man. As to himself as he tends to be, he is a polite conversationalist and a pleasant company to have. But his wife...</p><p>“And in cases for women like us, Marya,” Elena’s voice drops to something barely above a whisper - yet it sounds to Marya as loud as a scream over the noise of their fellow guests - as she abruptly grabs the older woman’s hand. “... the next lover is never far from our hands.”</p><p>As quickly as it was taken into Elena’s palms, Marya snatches her hand away and holds them both against her chest. Much to her further annoyance, the girl’s face does not budge from its expression. What was it here that entertained her so greatly? She has not driven her to such torment that it would be physically visible, she’s sure, because Marya has learned how to behave herself in public, clearly a skill that has gone out of fashion amidst Moscow’s young women. </p><p>“I shall be taking my leave, Elena,” Marya states with as much understated venom in her words as she can. “Give my good wishes to your husband.”</p><p>It is then, just as she turns to finally exit through the doorway into the almost eerily tranquil hallways, that she catches sight of another man. A young man, younger than her by far and Elena by only a few years at the very most. Expensively attention grabbing in his style and with that same little devil smile that the bride oh so tauntingly wears. </p><p>It does not require a genius to identify this as Elena’s brother. The way they giggle like children amongst themselves while she turns away. The way he whispers something to her that earns him a playful little punch to the chest from his still laughing sister. </p><p>So it runs in the family, it seems. </p><p>They are patient zero in the new wave she senses coming for Moscow’s social scene. They are the two infected rats yearning more than anything to spread their wickedness. A girl speaking so casually of infidelity while still in her own wedding gown, and her brother who encourages it, who preens more than his sister and who destroys women’s lives for his own shallow wants and needs. </p><p>These are only assumptions, of course. But that matters little to Marya. She does not need further acquaintance with those two to know her assumptions are true. </p><p>When Marya returns home, she prays. She always prays. But this is different. It is more than usual, far longer time spent upon it. She prays for Pierre. </p><p>Their people are everywhere. Crawling among the cracks of Moscow, surviving on attention and thriving on desire. Elena’s bloodline has been tainted by her own existence - not yet. She does not think so lowly of that girl just yet to assume she has already laid with somebody before marriage. But soon she will. Soon she will tire of her new husband. She will seek some new excitement. Some new sin to occupy herself with until that grows mundane to her as well. </p><p>And her brother. Well, it is always those men who cause the problems. The men who lure the women in. The men who tear lives apart. </p><p>His name is Anatole. </p><p>Marya hopes to herself that she never learns more than that.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I did mention this before in the tags but I want to repeat that there is nothing going on between Anatole and Hélène. Marya just has a very low opinion of this woman. Anyway, keep on reading, that’s all I had to say!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The intention had been to let the Bezukhovs be and leave them both to their own devices. At least, for a while. </p><p>And yet here Marya stands outside their doorway hardly scraping two weeks after they were wed. </p><p>She isn’t clingy. This is not because she simply cannot stand to be alone or apart from her dear friend. No, she manages being alone very well, thank you. As a matter of fact, she’s usually even more productive by herself, which makes living without a husband all the more ideal. </p><p>She’s here to check in on him, to make sure all is running smoothly, at least to some extent. Additionally, it wouldn’t hurt to get an update on the other member of this household either. The younger, the prettier, the less favourable of the home’s inhabitants. Find out how she has been holding up with her new existence as a married woman. If it was anybody else that Pierre had married she would make sure his wife was alright, because it is a rather dramatic shift to get accustomed to without ease. </p><p>Speaking of which, she cannot be considered a girl anymore, can she? It would be in her best interests, Marya thinks, for her to enter this new lifestyle with grace and maturity. </p><p>As expected, after being granted entrance, she happens upon Pierre first. He is as he always is; alone and reading. If you didn’t know any better, you would think nothing had changed. His wife is nowhere to be seen, but Marya is not complaining about that. </p><p>Pierre greets her welcomingly as he always does, speaking and acting towards her as if there has been no change since she was last standing in this room. It does not take long for the pair to be conversing as usual, falling quickly back into their routine patterns of conversational topics. They always have been a good pair of friends, those two. </p><p>And yet, although everything is normal for them, Marya cannot shake this strange feeling in her chest. </p><p>Because it is not as always was. He is not always is. There is somebody else now who hasn’t always been here. Things are not as they always were. Things are not normal. </p><p>There is a woman lurking somewhere nearby that does not belong. A true disappointment of a wife who won’t even show her face to a guest. A guest who before she had expressed a great interest in acquainting herself with. </p><p>And even as Marya talks as usual, as she always has, the thought of that woman does not leave her. She can feel that presence, that woman where she does not belong who could be hiding behind any corner and listening closely to all that she says in hopes she may one day use it all against her. She does not know why she fears this. She doesn’t want to know why. </p><p>“But enough about what’s happening in my life, I am hardly the more interesting one of us,” Marya says to conclude her last tangent of sorts about her beloved goddaughter Natalya, or Natasha, as she prefers to be called. She knows that she shouldn’t pick favourites, but with Natasha it is quite incredibly hard to help. “How has your world been as of recent, Pierre? Quite the change around here?”</p><p>“Oh, of course!” Pierre replies, seemingly surprised, as if he had forgotten that he was married entirely. </p><p>He goes on to detail how the last weeks have played out to a perhaps too intently listening Marya, who sips at her tea every so often throughout the duration of his tales. She listens as her friend dances around the details of his new wife; of how she is behaving, how she is serving him. Once again, when speaking of Elena, Marya learns nothing. </p><p>Apparently he has become more acquainted with some of Elena’s family. Her father and younger brother, to be exact; that was the boy she had spotted her with at the wedding. Her father was more there for Pierre than he was for his daughter according to her friend. He barely gave his daughter a passing glance his whole visit. </p><p>As for her brother, well, the two are inseparable, Pierre tells her, such incredibly close friends. Elena had, in fact, practically leaped on him when he had entered through the doorway, and neither had let go of the other for considerably quite some time. </p><p>Their father had made a passing remark about how it was good to separate the two. That it was good to now have an excuse to keep them apart. </p><p>Marya focuses on keeping her thoughts away from the worst possibility. She finds herself gripping her teacup, swallowing as she puts on a smile. They are close, but surely even they, of all people, they wouldn’t have...</p><p>“What is she like?” Marya interjects abruptly when Pierre pauses, speaking to distract herself from what her own mind was conjuring up. “You’ve spoken to me more about your in-laws than the woman who led you to them in the first place.”</p><p>“Ah, yes. Elena.”</p><p>Marya notices how her friend’s smile falters, how his gaze averts itself. He sound unsure, as if he had been purposefully avoiding this topic and hoping it would refrain from coming up in conversation at all. </p><p>“Is something the matter? Is she unwell?” Marya asks with false concern, hoping to disguise how very easily she can read Pierre’s emotions like the books he spends his days on. </p><p>“No, no, don’t fret. She is in perfect health.” Pierre quickly reassures her, to which Marya responds with a relived sigh bordering on the line of melodrama. “She is just- how do I put this... a complicated woman. Hard to understand, at times. I don’t think either one of us is particularly skilled with people, we just have to warm up to one another, that is all.”</p><p>Oh, so that is how she has been playing herself up to him. As some awkward girl who can’t start a conversation with her husband because the little thing doesn’t know how to. </p><p>Have pity on her, Pierre, do not suspect the true intentions beneath the beautiful surface, or why she spent more time at her own wedding escaping you. Why Marya asks so many prying questions. Why your wife is so close with her brother. So very close. </p><p>“Whatever can you mean? Why, she’s your wife! I would have thought the intimacy that word suggests would be enough.” Marya, just to make sure she has gotten her point across, decides that she must add to that. “And, not to mention what I observed of her at your wedding.”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“Well, I don’t like to gossip, as you know, but that reserved little wife of yours spent more time flaunting herself at your guests than she did by your side the moment that the ceremony had concluded. She’s a little socialite in waiting, your wife.”</p><p>She pauses. Quiet befalls them until Marya’s words start up. </p><p>“She is not some shy thing, I am sure of it, from how I watched her.“</p><p>“I wasn’t suggesting that she is-“</p><p>“She has no fear of people, quite the opposite. But you say she’s been some sort of emotional girl with you.” Marya allows herself to pause. “I do worry that perhaps she is so brilliant when it comes to playing up whatever act she pleases every day that she has you entirely fooled.”</p><p>“Has nobody ever told you it is impolite to eavesdrop, Marya?”</p><p>Both Pierre and Marya turn their head towards the direction of the third voice. It could only be one person, of course, but the sight of Elena does, for some reason, still startle her. She looks quite different in her own attire, her hair styled how she likes and her wealthy attire, while still beautiful, much less grand. </p><p>Elena was leant against the doorway, her slender frame blocking out the light shining into the room from behind her. Her eyes seem to somehow convey betrayal, but her hands, wrapped around her torso and accentuating the bust that her dress barely covers. Her stance seems so perfectly formatted, so well timed, her casual approach just too convenient. Even the fixated look upon Marya appeared to be practiced. </p><p>Either Marya had gone on for so long that she had appeared without either one of the pair hearing or she had been silently waiting for her moment to strike, like a wild cat may stalk her prey. Both possibilities are equally likely, and yet nether one provides more ease than the other. Either way, she had heard what was not intended for her. </p><p>The three wait there in silence for a while, the older pair staring at Elena, the younger keeping herself focused entirely on Marya. She doesn’t like the look she’s giving her. It is something that she doesn’t understand, but knowing this type of woman, it cannot mean anything good. </p><p>She expects her to make the next move, the older woman soon realises. She had interrupted them after all. Marya had a right mind to educate the pretty thing on the concept of manners. That and the irony of her statement, given how the only way she would know what Marya knew is if she herself were-</p><p>“Such a shame,” Elena sighs, breaking the silence yet keeping every last bit of tension in the room. “I come down here expecting to say hello to our guest who I thought was my friend only to hear all of this. Making me out to be some sort of manipulative little child seeking attention.”</p><p>Elena’s voice is heavy with hurt as if Marya’s words had genuinely broken her heart in two. She does something clever then. She lifts her hand, turns it ever so slightly, and ensuring that the light catches her wedding ring. As she makes this swift motion, she turns her attention to Pierre, with an innocent, sorrowful sort of look on her face. </p><p>“You don’t really believe what she says about me, do you, my dear? That I’m just putting on some... some act?”</p><p>The distress in his wife’s voice prompts Pierre to stand, to rush to her side as she covers her face with her hands. Marya, setting her tea down, realises that even she is beginning to fall under this young woman’s spell. She is doubting herself. Doubting that the countess could have possibly been that bad if this is her response to hearing herself being talked about so negatively. If her tears are real, and they certainly look real, her feelings must be genuine as well. Mustn’t they? </p><p>“I had thought we were friends,” Elena sniffles as she is embraced by her strong husband, though she notably does not wrap her arms around him in return. “We had talked at the wedding, and I... did I come on too strong?”</p><p>Elena, now addressing her directly, is an entirely different person compared to who she had encountered at the wedding. Maybe she really was just bad at conversation, she hadn’t understood when she had overstepped a boundary. All of a sudden, Marya felt the unmistakable sensation of guilt twisting inside of her. Look at how she had upset this young girl so greatly over a simple misunderstanding! How could she? Was she not above this? Her mouth was open, ready to form an apology, but Elena interrupts with more of her cries. </p><p>“Pierre, do tell me you believe me! That you don’t think me to be a harlot in disguise!” Elena pulls away so that she may look her husband in the eye, one tear rolling down her cheek with dramatically good timing. “I would never dream of breaking your trust in me, honestly!”</p><p>“Oh dear, of course not!” Pierre is quick to reassure her, shaking his head. “You and Marya have just had a misunderstanding, that is all.”</p><p>Marya nods. For all she had held against Elena, she now feels more wretched than ever, looking upon the young lady as she cries relentlessly. And over her words, nonetheless!</p><p>“Would you...” the countess begins. “Would you give me a moment alone with Marya, please?”</p><p>Pierre agreed, to which Elena thanks him in response. Before he leaves the two women, he gently kisses her cheek, touching Elena as if she might break away into pieces. </p><p>Marya hadn’t imagined Elena to be a fragile thing. </p><p>The younger of the two waits, standing in the doorway and watching intently until her husband had vanished upstairs. And then, when she was abundantly sure that he had gone, she breathes a heavy sigh. </p><p>Is she relived?</p><p>Is she happy he’s gone? Is she grateful that he has left? Was that all an act, really? Had she played them both for fools?</p><p>Marya’s sympathy for the countess freezes over as swiftly as it had initially thawed. She sat there, silently staring as Elena’s little facade of despair faded, crumbling like an ancient building. She breathes heavily as she dries her eyes. There were no more tears, no more cries, not a trace of sadness apparent in those beautiful features of hers when her attention is directed back to her. </p><p>“Don’t stare now, Marya darling, at least wait until I look prettier.” Elena remarks with a breathy laugh.</p><p>“You wicked woman!” Marya exclaims, standing. She is taller than Elena; not by all that much, but given the elaborate nature of her attire, she is probably wearing heels as well. “How dare you? I-“</p><p>“How dare I what?” </p><p>“Don’t you try that with me! I am no fool, you will not play me for one! I-”</p><p>“Oh, do be quiet!”</p><p>Elena had hardly raised her voice, and yet Marya subconsciously obeys.</p><p>“You wouldn’t want Pierre to hear you shouting at me, would you?” Elena continues with a tilt of her head. “You wouldn’t want to upset me any more, now, what kind of guest would you be?”</p><p>She smiles then, like a young girl, a girl who would not be too many years younger than her, a woman now but still a woman just balancing on the boundary of adulthood, playing a trick. Just a little girl playing her game.</p><p>The two women stand a distance apart from one another, guarding their half of the room and willing the other to challenge, to initiate a battle over territory in a manor that really neither one of them belonged in. </p><p>Eventually, Marya speaks up to break the silence. </p><p>“What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at?”</p><p>“What do you mean?” Elena retorts, laughing once more, all the while keeping that abhorrent smile of hers on her face. She plays herself as innocent, as if Marya’s question as confused her.</p><p>“Oh, don’t you play innocent with me. Maybe you have that husband of yours fooled but I am not so easy a game.”</p><p>“I’m not trying to fool you,” the younger woman retorts as she stalks across the room.</p><p>Oh really, must everything that leaves this woman’s mouth be shrouded in incomprehensible mystery? Can she say what she means, even just once, for convenience sake?</p><p>Her gaze meets Marya’s again, and her smile drops momentarily as she realises the iciness directed in them solely towards her, before returning ever brighter. That shine in her eyes suggests that this is very much a practiced mannerism as well. </p><p>Elena is leant over the back of a chair now, barely acknowledging Marya in this moment when compared to how relentlessly she had stared her down before. She’s examining her hand - the hand, Marya notices, that displays her wedding ring. Toying with the precious thing, stroking it gently as it rests on her finger. Marya could leave and she may very well pay no mind. </p><p>“What are you hoping to gain by this?”</p><p>“To gain by what?” Elena speaks without turning her head, disinterested as could be. Astonishing, truly, how rapidly her emotions and demeanour appear to change to whatever is most convenient at the time for her. “Details would be appreciated, my dear.”</p><p>“By deceiving Pierre into thinking you are some angel,” Marya decides upon. Oh, there are many things that she could have said, certainly, but this one is the most important to address presently. “He will one day discover what you really are.”</p><p>“Oh, will he now? And what would that be?”</p><p>Elena stands, patiently awaiting a response, and her eyes dark as night cut so deep into her soul that Marya fears she may really be bleeding. </p><p>“Come now, Marya, out with it,” prompts the young countess, slowly moving herself so that her body is facing the older woman. Her dress is shaped in such a way that it doesn’t directly show off anything scandalous, but just enough to make any curious onlooker fantasise over what may be hidden away beneath her clothing. Not Marya, of course; these tricks do not work on virtuous women like herself. But Elena, despite the lack of experience Marya hopes that she has, knows what she is doing; how to undo all of that modesty - or rather the attempt at it - how to lure the innocent mind to all manner of sinful places with little more then her own form. And all with that coy look upon her face. </p><p>Elena sits down, crossing one leg over the other, and the movement of her skirts flashes a bit of her leg to Marya. Those eyes are still watching her, looking up with a merciless sense of focus. </p><p>“You could at the very least look at me.”</p><p>Elena snaps her fingers, ensuring that Marya is indeed looking at her. The icy power of Marya’s eyes feels melted away by whatever heat Elena possesses. </p><p>“You hate me, don’t you?” Elena says, though it hardly sounds like a question the way it should. “And for what? For how I teased you weeks ago? For how my brother and I laughed at you? Does age not mature a woman like yourself, or is the lord keeping every part of you young?”</p><p>There is an air of confidence about Elena’s voice that never once leaves. A quality to that sound that stirs something low in Marya’s being. Something deep and strange that only she has ever toyed with. It is not remorse. Or guilt. Why would it be? Why would she feel anything for her?</p><p>Witchcraft, it must be. Or something of the sort. Another bone of her heathen tactics for keep somebody else in her grasp with no way to flee. </p><p>“It seems to me, Marya, as if you want to hate me. I think you’ve made some assumptions about me that are completely untrue. But I don’t want to hate you, not even for that. Nothing of the sort.”</p><p>“What is it that you want, then?” Marya finally interjects, hoping that this time her question may be answered. </p><p>Elena grins. </p><p>“I want us to be friends,” she answers. “And if not friends, then acquaintances. Close ones, ideally.”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“I mean what I say. There is no hidden message here, darling, you needn’t lie awake at night deciding my words. Though the idea that I am in your thoughts is one I enjoy.”</p><p>Desperately, Marya tries to decode what this girl- this woman is suggesting to her. What is really lurking beneath the surface here? What scheme is she attempting to rope her into? </p><p>“Ah, Pierre!”</p><p>Elena’s voice breaks Marya out of her trance. Pierre has reentered the room, his wife quickly standing as she notices his presence among them. Marya, on edge, merely smiles at him. </p><p>“Marya and I have come to an understanding, my dear. She and I would like to become closer. If you don’t mind, of course.”</p><p>This, Pierre seems pleased by. In fact, as he tells them, he is glad that they have reached a peaceful conclusion together, and should they choose to become friends, he will be happy to allow them. </p><p>Conversation continues almost as normal, though now Elena sits among them. She is not behaving in any way that should unsettle Marya, but for some reason, her very presence in the room does. There is something incomprehensible about her, so before unexperienced in Marya’s world are the feelings that she is sparking. The woman confuses her.</p><p>Undoubtedly they are all negative. All sensations that she must quell the spark of if she wants to keep herself away from her siren’s call. </p><p>She must remember who she is. And who Elena is. What Elena is. What she will become when her husband will no longer fulfil her every wish, when he starts to see through her little facade. </p><p>Elena offers to show Marya out when the time does come for her to leave. The countess bats her eyelids at her, looks up at her with such grace, wishes her a pleasant evening. </p><p>She is wrong. Marya does have her good reasons for making the assumptions that she has about her. And she does not need to specify them to this harlot to make them truthful. To make them as good reasons as they are to condemn her very being. Marya has her reasons and they are reasons Elena deserves to finally have held against her.</p><p>Marya says only one thing in response. </p><p>“Stay away from me.”</p><p>She thinks little of the utter look of hurt upon the girl’s face when she walks away.</p><p>She has shown herself to be quite the talented actress.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The visits persist, but Elena does not. </p><p>There is no following interaction with the countess that follows along the similar lines of the first call she had given to them. In fact, as weeks turn into months, there are hardly any interactions with her at all. </p><p>Elena does not sneak up on the two of them anymore. She does not taunt her with her almost entirely convincing act of innocence. She does not wait in anticipation for her cue to enter. At first, Mayra believes this to be a new tactic of hers that she has employed since the almost failure of her last. But as the visits continue, the conversations go on, and Elena makes no move, it appears to her that this is not the case. She cannot fathom Kuragins to be a particularly patient breed of people - this woman and her brother especially so - nor as calculating as some long con of this nature would require. This must be, in that case, a wordless admission of defeat.</p><p>Drastically differing from Marya’s first two encounters with the woman, barely a word is heard from Elena. </p><p>Marya’s visits become and remain as a weekly ordeal. The Bezukhov’s receive her presence at least once per week, becoming so custom for them, being Pierre and his servants, that she does not need to forewarn the household. The countess’ presence slowly becomes ever more infrequent and unnoticeable - a word for her that seems so unfitting if one were to consider her first impression upon Marya’s life. How beautiful she had look in her wedding dress, how gorgeous she had appeared from a skin-deep glance. How everybody’s eyes had admired her so greatly. And how Marya’s had so unfortunately been among them.</p><p>Elena drew would sit in the room with them at first, trying to get a word in when she could - something that Marya quickly shut down - which was, even so, infrequent. When she did speak she offered nothing of substance. What would she even have to say? Her husband has so far been of right mind enough to keep her indoors, wether that is with the conscious knowledge of what she may try and play at out in Moscow should he give her such freedom or without. </p><p>It would be cruel to behave so coldly had Elena not conducted herself so abhorrently before. She had shown her true colours on two occasions now, and Marya believed every second of it that she had witnessed. And just in case she dared disobey her warning, in case she tried to work her wicked ways on her again, Marya concludes that she might as well make perfectly sure that her distaste for the woman is, by her, well known. </p><p>And it does seem to affect the younger woman more than she cares to show. In the tone of her voice, how it lacks the energy it once held. How she tries to speak just a little louder go make sure she is heard. And Marya, she plays her cards tactfully as well, never being directly malicious in how she attacks. Just sweet enough so that Pierre suspects nothing, yet with the sharpness lying beneath to ensure Elena is aware of what the purpose of her words truly is.</p><p>The hurt look on her face, the averting of her gaze, the defeated sigh as she exits a room she is clearly not wanted in. All of that Marya ignores. This is practiced. She is an actress, she reminds herself. She has done this before. She will feel no sympathy for a person like her. </p><p>Does she not realise she is unwelcome? That she does not belong here? Why does it surprise her? Is her husband’s kindness behind closed doors so great that prospect of being shunned sends her storming from the room? </p><p>Her question is soon answered, though she has to piece said answer together herself and even so it is a vague one. Yes, perhaps he did. But he never stops her from leaving, and he never comforts her in her dismay. Her very apparent dismay that calls for the attention of anybody who may hear. </p><p>If she is so desperate for conversation, why does she not go crawling back to that brother of hers she adores? He will keep her entertained. </p><p>She gives up eventually. Gives up talking. Gives up on trying to become part of something that she never will be. Sitting there in silence instead. Pierre allows her. He does not speak to her unless to ask her some trivial question or request. </p><p>Why does she bother to stick around? Marya is not one for subtlety most of the time, and this has quite clearly not been one of her rare exceptions. She had ignored Elena when she spoke, and she still does not acknowledge her now. And now even her husband barely speak to her like a spouse, at least in Marya’s presence. What on earth does she gain from this?</p><p>Before her vow of silence, Pierre would still humour her, as seemed to be his duty as a husband to make his wife feel included. But whenever he too ignores her interjections, Marya begins to suspect that Elena’s facade is falling even when she is not there. When it is just husband and wife. Her act must be slipping from her day by day. </p><p>Eventually she stops joining them. </p><p>Sometimes Marya will catch a glimpse of her. Passing by the half open doorway as her shadow momentarily blocks the light from the hallway outside the room. Walking up their many staircases in pure white dresses that do not suit a woman like her. She has never been deserving of that colour. That description. Heavenly. Angelic. Pure. </p><p>Of course, there are Marya’s own reasons for wishing to strip away that word from Elena - pure - but there is the more literal explanation should anybody ask, though she can’t imagine it is a question that will ever come up. Obviously, pure is something that she no longer is. She is a man’s wife. </p><p>But she will be some other man’s lover any day now. It has been five months, their marriage, and Marya can’t help but wonder if Elena has decided upon her options. </p><p>The time of Marya’s visits can vary, but they are usually in the evening, and if not then the late afternoon at earliest, when all activities for the day are passed; not that she and Pierre get up to much, but she does so just in case he has decided to change his routine for this day in particular. Or maybe it is to reassure herself that her life is something less than simple and redundant</p><p>But she notices the lack of Elena’s presence. She doesn’t need Pierre’s confirmation to tell whenever she is out of the house. Not that he gives her any. Not that she asks. </p><p>There is a distinct shift in Pierre when this starts happening. When Elena is gone during the evening and he seems more tired than usual. He is out of sorts more often than not, he pours more rum in his tea than he should. Marya feels like she is witnessing something that should never have involved her. But somehow, she knows that it does.</p><p>Because if Elena is out alone in the evening, there are only so many places she could be. And even fewer of those places are appropriate for a married woman of her status to be without her husband at her side. </p><p>There are only so many things she could be doing.</p><p>And yet still she mentions nothing. Acts as if nothing is out of sorts in this slightest. It is an act of mercy, really, isn’t it? Merciful to spare her friend the shame of admitting what his wife has potentially done to him. Or maybe it is merciful on herself to not think about it in any further detail.</p><p>He is always in her prayers these days, doing all she believes that she can to stop his life from worsening. She loves her friends. She cares for them deeply, and the danger that Pierre is in is one she can’t try to ignore. </p><p>That slow descent speeds up, and Marya’s visits become progressively more infrequent.</p><p>Pierre becomes a much harder person to be around. More of an effort to talk to, with Marya carrying most conversations between the two.</p><p>Weekly catch ups become monthly at best, and she stays for shorter periods of time than she had ever before considered.</p><p>It has been ten months since the wedding.</p><p>There is one night in particular that shocks Marya immensely during a mostly uneventful week. One night that is quite the turning point, in a way, for when things started to dramatically worsen for all parties involved. That added thunder to their rainstorm and a blizzard into winter. </p><p>The smell of alcohol hits her before the sight of Pierre does. He has gone through at least over half a bottle of what she knows by the look of him to be something stronger than what she herself would ever approach. She hopes her “at least” is accurate, because their could be some bottles strewn about somewhere that she doesn’t yet know about, and given that she has never seen Pierre drunk before, she has no point of reference for how concerning this should be. </p><p>Regardless, she is concerned. An understatement indeed. </p><p>He is a mess. He has never been the most elegant of men, but this is a drastically different kind of dishevelled than what she is accustomed to with him. In his bewilderment he mistakes her for Elena; at least, she assumes that is what he said, because his words are so slurred she can scarcely understand them. She stares at him for a while in abject horror before instincts to help kick in. Carefully, she pries the glass from his hand and moves the bottle out of his reach and, when she notices they have fallen, hands him back his glasses. </p><p>The room itself is a mess, and it is not one that Pierre created on his own. There was a vase smashed into pieces against the wall, his books strewn across the floor. A fight, she supposed, was one of the only answers.</p><p>They had been married almost a year ago.</p><p>Half a year. Had it really been that long? It had been likely closer to four, give or take a week or so, since she had seen Elena at all. Yes, four months, it must have been. For she has become something of a socialite, mingling with crowds Marya would never dare associate with, and her name has not once been heard in that time. For all Marya cares, Elena Bezukhova could be dead. Could have gone cold four months ago. In that time she had not caught the slightest glimpse of her. </p><p>Marya wonders if she still wears white. If she is still covered up. If she still has that detestable smile. If she-</p><p>“What did she do?” Marya asks. There is no use dancing around the issue. They both knew well what the root of the issue here was. </p><p>Pierre mumbles something more, adding some additional words just as Marya presumed that he had stopped. He sounded more like he was talking to himself than his guests, but she cannot blame him. He probably hardly knows if she is really here or not. </p><p>The important words that she deciphers from her friend’s barely audible answer were, in order:</p><p>“Elena... fight... children... left...”</p><p>Marya’s brow furrows in confusion. All made sense besides... on second thought, no. She is not here to play detective with her friend’s failing marriage. </p><p>“They fought,” is all that she can think of as she helps tidy Pierre to the best of her ability. “And she has run off.”</p><p>Who is she with? Marya tries to recall the faces of guests that she did not recognise, though none of them outside of Elena’s bloodline look to be people she would ever associate herself with. </p><p>Or perhaps her brother? Both of them, perhaps, she has not heard of the eldest of the family but he is a man and he is not her husband. What reason would that woman have to deny him?</p><p>Then there is the matter of the more mysterious word. Children... is Elena with child? Carrying the son or daughter of another man perhaps? Or is it Pierre’s offspring growing in her womb and she wishes to rid herself of it? Either way, she wouldn’t at all put it past her. </p><p>She guides Pierre to his room, talks to him more in an attempt to gain a further idea of what had occurred in her absence (an attempt which she does not succeed at, given that he seemingly just repeats himself time and time again), before ensuring that he is asleep, for it is already later than she usually stays for, and she must get home. </p><p>Rest does not find her easily that night. She tries all that has worked before to induce it, but to no avail. The thought of Elena plagues her; where she is, what she is doing, who’s bed she is occupying. What that destructive fight was over. Why does this woman invade her thoughts so frequently? With such persistence even to this day? For all she knows, Pierre put Elena out of her misery himself and it is her ghost that haunts her. </p><p>Pierre would never do that, she feels the need to remind herself, even if it only is a passing thought of a potential possibility, unlikely as it is. He would never hurt anybody in his life, not even her. </p><p>When she does find sleep it is restless. Twice she awakens in the darkness of night, staring into nothingness, and when she can stay asleep no dreams find her. She awakens drained, her energy as depleted as it had been the night prior. But still, the day goes on, and Marya but keep on existing. </p><p>It is a Sunday, as well. She has duties she is sworn to, and the lord does not compromise for her own exhaustion. Besides, this could do her good in the position she has found herself in. She can think of one other person who may benefit from some faith as well. </p><p>There is nothing particularly noteworthy about church that morning, nothing out of the ordinary that caught Marya’s attention. Aside from the one or two times she thinks that she must have heard somebody say Elena’s name. They wouldn’t care about her. Not these people. She is imagining things, that it all.</p><p>More than once her thoughts return to Pierre when the opportunity to aid him arises. His wife, too, resides in her thoughts, perhaps even more so. But not with the hopes of salvation. </p><p>When the hours pass, when the prayers are concluded, Marya feels torn. She would like to return to Pierre, to see how he is managing since last she saw him, but of course, therein lies the issue of his wife. She will be there, won’t she? Unless whichever man she had thrown herself at the night prior had allowed her to take up residence in his home that could only pale in comparison to the Bezukhov’s property. </p><p>Against her better judgement, she goes.</p><p>When the servant answers the door, Marya need not ask who she is calling upon. Every resident in this building already knows why she appears and who she arrives for, they have become well adjusted to her routine by this point, and Marya cannot blame them. </p><p>“The count does not wish to see anybody,” she is told. </p><p>“And his wife?”</p><p>“The countess is yet to return home.”</p><p>That whore. </p><p>Marya bids the servant farewell, and that is that. She will not be seeing either Bezukhov today, and perhaps, in a strange sense, that is more a blessing than a curse. </p><p>And yet, something feels wrong. Because there is something restless still in her torso, an energy she cannot quell that informs her loudly that all is not right. That something - it does not elaborate further than that - is out of sorts in the world. This has become a feeling she is all too accustomed to nowadays, though, so it have become easier and easier for her to push it aside. Which she does.</p><p>She is being irrational. Overdramatic. Pierre is an intelligent man, and she wed not fret over him so. He will know what to do about his wife. He will know how to properly dispose of her, if need be. </p><p>She enters her own home and the sensations only intensify. Weighing down upon her shoulders and reaching up into her throat. </p><p>The unmistakable feeling of being watched hits her as the heavy doors close her in. Heavy doors that close louder than she remembers them despite having resided here for decades now. The echoing of her footsteps in the spacious halls sounds louder, too, the house emptier and yet still like she has an unwelcome guest she is yet to spit amongst her. </p><p>And there are definite differences too. Ones that she can prove, that she knows have not always been the way that they are now because she knows herself well, much better than how she would need to in order to deny what is out of place. </p><p>She doesn’t own that cloak that she notices hanging up. Nor those gloves haphazardly tossed onto the table beside it. And she always keeps the door to the drawing room open as a force of habit, although she knows it is an impractical thing to do since it lets all of the cold in. She always keeps the door open, but it is firmly closed in her face. </p><p>Has there been a break in? Certainly not. Her servants would have come to notify her if they had been. Speaking of which, where are they? Marya has a fortune but she is not the richest target is Moscow, certainly not enough to warrant any possible thief from killing her staff in cold blood just for some added money. </p><p>She mindlessly turns the handle of the drawing room’s door and finds it, as she suspected, open. Why she had felt such a determined draw to the room, she cannot day. It was an instinctive decision, if one could call it a decision at all. A move her body made without notifying her, as if it had gained a mind of its own externally from her commands. </p><p>She sets foot into the room, and the warm glow of her fireplace catches her eye. Even more so does the slender figure stood in front of it, partially obscuring its light. The source of her discomfort is apparent now. </p><p>Elena Bezukhova is standing in her home.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The months had quite significantly changed the woman who stood before Marya. Elena barely resembled the image she had formed inside her head of how she may be. Of how she had been all those months ago. </p><p>For a start, she no longer wears white. Almost entirely the opposite, in fact. The dress that embraces her now is of mostly black that shines and glitters as the light catches her skirts. Despite the black she has clad herself in, though, she does not resemble any sort of funeral goer. It is too expensive for that. Too rich, too glamorous, too eye catching to be the attire of a widow. Though Marya assumes that she would like to be one. </p><p>She is corseted tightly. Almost too tightly, most definitely too much to be comfortable for any sane wearer. Marya recalls Pierre’s words- well, word. Elena has made it impossible to tell how true they are.</p><p> </p><p>The only piece of white that still remains upon Elena’s form was her just as new and just as expensive selection of jewellery. More specifically, the white resides around her beautiful neck. Her pearls, that glow softly by the light of the fireplace from which emanates the only light in the room (she seemed to have drawn the heavy curtains herself despite the daylight outside) she stands before. Who’s light casts her shadow looming across the room. </p><p>Marya cannot yet gather a full idea of what, or who, the countess is now. Her back is still turned to her, after all. But the pearls are visible. She wears her hair up now. Loose, but up, exposing that pretty neck of hers. And exposing those shoulders. </p><p>Shoulders that her dress not only reveals, but accentuates. Thin chains of gold falling gently down and wrapping around her smooth skin. Gold that forms in patterns around her dress that sparkles with the wealth she possesses. </p><p>“Well, it took you long enough.”</p><p>Elena clasps her hands in front of her torso, turning to the side. </p><p>“Quite the beautiful place you have, my dear. Such a shame that you never thought to invite me over.”</p><p>She faces Marya almost fully, giving her now a much clearer look at what the past months have made of her.  </p><p>Shoulders are not all that her dress exposes of her. With how she has now started to tie up her dark hair, which is adorned with a golden chain headpiece similar to those her dress hold around her shoulders, it displays her defined collarbones, bare and beautiful. The room’s lighting only accentuate them more as she turns, the light’s soft glow caressing them in its golden hue. </p><p>Additionally - and this must be prefaced with the fact that Marya was not at all actively looking for this, it is merely a feature that is difficult to ignore for anybody, which is likely the whole point, after all - the dress that she had chosen for today sports a particularly low cut neckline. A low enough neckline and a tight enough corset - and it appeared to be tight - to showcase what the men of Moscow must be looking for and might be paying for. The pearls, of course, do not aid her in modesty, the way they fall and drip over every soft curve as they pour down her chest. </p><p>Her hands are still covered delicately by black lace gloves, only for fashion rather than function with her fingers and most of her palms exposed, each shining with the precious metals and gemstones of her rings. Her lack of practicality in her choice of gloves explains those Marya had seen when she had entered. </p><p>Her skirts sway as she moves, their metallic sheen displaying all stunning shades of green that the fabric could contain. The dress does, to Elena’s credit, reach the floor. But that is as covered as she gets. </p><p>Her bare arms. Her bare shoulders. Her neck, her pearls, her eyes. Her eyes! The way they stare so relentlessly into Marya’s own, an unreadable darkness stirring strange feelings she had hoped to escape. How Elena’s eyelids shimmer with gold, how her lips are tinted red, how she will absolutely not stop staring at her. </p><p>“I have never known you to be a woman of so few words, Marya.” Elena speaks, her voice soft and low. “Come now, speak. Don’t leave me in suspense.”</p><p>“What are you doing here?”</p><p>“I’m paying you a visit!” the younger woman answers as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s only fair that one of us return the favour, after all the good company you have given us. But of course, poor Pierre won’t leave his study and that leaves only me.”</p><p>“Does he know that you’re here?”</p><p>“Why does it matter?”</p><p>“You of all people know why.”</p><p>“Do I? That is news to me. I would love to be informed of what it is I of all people should know, I think that maybe then this mystery shall be solved.”</p><p>“Elena, do not play this act with me.” Marya snaps. Elena smirks, and as always, Marya is infuriated. </p><p>“I am only here to talk,” the countess continues, completely disregarding the question to which she never provided an answer. “I have been trying so very hard to bond with you, Marya, but you never seem to notice me.”</p><p>“And what do you want from me?”</p><p>Elena pauses. She stands there for a moment or two, giving Marya a slow look up and down. When their games meet again, Elena smiles. </p><p>“What I have always wanted. I’d like for us to be friends.”</p><p>Marya longs to bare her teeth at this woman. To tear her into pieces and free her husband of her wicked nature. But her words dry up in her throat, her voice failing on her like never before. </p><p>Her gaze is still freezing, but the warmth of Elena’s fights to melt it away. </p><p>“Come,” Elena gestures to the chairs in front of the fireplace. “Sit.”</p><p>And against her own will, Marya obeys her. </p><p>The two women sit opposite each other, their eye contact sharp as knives and utterly unbreaking. Elena slowly crosses one leg over the other, resting each of her slim arms on the armchair. Her torso is uncovered of everything but her elaborately embellished clothing - if you could even call it that. She relaxes her shoulders, her collarbones and breasts catching the light yet again. Her eyes flit momentarily downwards, once more examining Marya’s form. </p><p>The countess’ position is undeniably tactical. She has quite the idea of how to use her body. Marya is sickened to imagine how she may have learned this. </p><p>They sit in silence like that for who knows how long. The younger of the pair clearly enjoying herself and making absolutely no efforts to hide it either. Elena sits there enjoying herself. Enjoying Marya’s repulsion to her scarcely covered body. </p><p>What is left to the imagination, she wonders if Marya is picturing. Her eyes hold something Marya does not care to identify for fear of what it may be; low-lidded and accentuated with shining shadows. Her lips a deeper red than Marya’s own, the shade of danger. Of lust and of desire and of bloody justice. </p><p>Marya breathes deeply, trapped beneath Elena’s gaze. She feels overpowered, as if that low pull inside of her will undo her composure any second as Elena sits before her. But she does not weaken. She does not yield or obey every whim of this woman as likely countless men have before. She must remember who she is. Remember what she has done. What she knows that she has done. </p><p>Slowly, the countess uncrosses her legs, before just as slowly placing the opposite over the other. Right over left to left over right, and Marya unwillingly allows her gaze to fall and watch. In a deliberate move while the older woman’s gaze is there, one of Elena’s hands tiredly falls to adjust her shimmering skirts. </p><p>In what must be a teasingly slow move, her hand drifts back up her body. From her thigh to her corseted stomach slimmed so greatly down that if she were carrying a child, it would be hard for anybody, regardless of how much they cared, to tell either which way. Her waist, her breasts, and lastly allowing her fingers to catch on her precious pearls before her arm finds its place again upon the armchair. Marya’s gaze never once leaves her hand. It felt as if she was bewitched, caught in some strange spell that Elena has cast upon her. </p><p>And still they sit. Elena flaunting her curves in a matter that strays from subtlety, Marya keeping her eyes firmly fixated on the younger woman’s face to ensure that they don’t stray. </p><p>Elena, after taking in every detail of Marya’s face, is the first to speak up. </p><p>“You despise me, don’t you?”</p><p>Marya does not give her the luxury of an answer, not straight away at least. She takes a moment for herself, her thoughts, her own fingers idly toying with the edge of her shawl. </p><p>“That I do.” Marya admits. There is no use in denying it. Why pretend in private? She has been so obvious about this fact in their past. </p><p>“And yet you allow me to be here.”</p><p>Marya swallows harshly. She is right, she reluctantly confesses to herself. She has every right to throw Elena out of doors this very second, but she does not. She cannot bring herself to. Why can’t she? Why does she allow this woman in her home? To sit and converse with her as a still uninvited guest?</p><p>“There must be something you like about me. Something that you simply won’t let yourself admit.”</p><p>“Elena-“</p><p>“Oh please, don’t call me that,” the countess unexpectedly interjects with an unexpected sharpness that takes Marya by surprise. “I have heard quite enough of that name from your dear friend.”</p><p>“And what may I call you then?”</p><p>Marya’s tone is all too condescending, but Elena - is whatever she should be called, answers with sincerity. </p><p>“Hélène if you must. My lady if you’d prefer.”</p><p>“Oh?” Marya gives a slight, disapproving raise of one eyebrow. “So is that what your lover calls you?”</p><p>Elena- Hélène’s expression falters at that. It is only momentary, her break in character vanishing as soon as it came. She exhales a breathy laugh, her smile displaying teeth as white as her pearls. </p><p>“Ah. So that is what you think of me. How very interesting.” </p><p>“How else would you expect me to?”</p><p>“Hm,” Hélène tilts her head to one side, resting it on her palm as her curls gently fall to one side. “I’m not sure. It is not in my power to dictate what conclusions you form of me.” </p><p>“It is in your power to control yourself.”</p><p>“Oh, I have plenty of control.” Hélène whispers with a certain edge to her voice. “It is you, Marya, who may want to practice what you preach.” </p><p>She finishes her statement with another smile; this one vastly sweeter than what Marya had come to expect from Hélène. </p><p>“But that is only my advice. And if I know you Marya, which I do,” she continues in a slow drawl, taking her time as she pleases. “I don’t imagine that you will take it. After all, you have made quite the habit out of ignoring me. Supposing I shall sit idly by while you push me to the side. Taking up my husband’s time and working your way into his mind to turn him against me. And all for what? Snatching away my one and only source of attention in my close proximity as if I am to be punished like a misbehaving girl. Is that your intention? To drive me into misery for crimes you cannot prove I have committed? Of wrongdoings you suspect I am capable of?”</p><p>“I don’t suspect-“</p><p>“Don’t lie to me.”</p><p>This is a new expression for Marya to take in upon Hélène’s face. Anger. Plain and simple. Anger that she does nothing to cover up. And it comes out of seemingly nowhere. Little to no prompt to this abrupt change in her demeanour.</p><p>“You’re a terrible actress, Marya, were my husband not the fool he is I’m sure you’re little plan wouldn’t have worked so well.”</p><p>Marya had no plan at all beyond keeping Hélène in her place. And, by extension of that, protecting Pierre from her fiendish ways, which she has clearly failed with. </p><p>“You don’t love that man,” is what Marya chooses to respond with. </p><p>“Of course I don’t. And I never will. Who on earth would?” Hélène shakes her head with a bitter smile.</p><p>The countess was speaking more to herself in that moment than Marya, almost entirely forgetting that she was there. But when her gaze returns upwards and they meet Marya’s own, she is reminded of where she is, of who she is speaking to. </p><p>“Do you suppose I’d met him before, Marya?”</p><p>“Excuse me?”</p><p>“I mean exactly as I said. Do you suppose, Marya, that I had so much as spoken a single word to that man before our wedding day?”</p><p>Marya does not answer. These are questions who’s truths are not for her to know and not for her to speculate over. </p><p>“And another thing, Marya. Do you suppose I got a say in who I would be marrying? In who’s name I would be taking? In who’s wife I would become? Do you suppose I enjoyed life, Marya, as a daughter born between two sons who outshine her purely by virtue of them being valuable without somebody else’s ring? Do you suppose, Marya, that my life has been one I have ever had a chance to enjoy? Where no matter what I do there will always be somebody who decides who I am on my behalf, where I will always be a belonging to be passed on to someone else in an exchange of money and vows, and where I am condemned by strangers who know nothing of the life I have lived for daring to disobey rules set by people who wish only to control me! Do you suppose I would be able to care for a man I hardly know when the life I have lived has shown no care for me? And have you ever, Marya, have you ever once during your uninvited visits considered that this is a life I do not want to live!”</p><p>Marya watches in stunned silence as Hélène’s voice crescendos out of control. Upon her final exclamation, she stands suddenly, and Marya cannot help but notice how ragged her voice sounds. So different to how she had grown accustomed to hearing Hélène, who has always spoken with such grace, such intention in every low tone, every softly spoken word. </p><p>Their gaze is fixed, apparently neither woman wanting to break it. Hélène’s bare shoulders are visibly heaving with her breaths, her rings pressing their outlines into her palms as her hands ball into fists. The younger woman opens her mouth as if she now decided to speak, but all that escaped her throat was a choked sigh. </p><p>She bites her lower lip and the inside of her cheeks, silently staring at Marya until she can’t hold her gaze any longer, shutting her own eyes tightly and turning her face away from Marya. </p><p>“I...”</p><p>Marya has never prior to today been at a loss for words, but of course it is Hélène who does this to her. She is conflicted, for lack of a better word. Hélène’s emotions seem beyond really anybody’s acting ability and something too extreme for her to willingly display. But there is no denying what she had made of Pierre. The very few possibilities that could explain her absence in the evenings. </p><p>So many questions she wishes to ask, and yet not one does she say. </p><p>“And here I was thinking you would understand me. And here I am,” Hélène gestures around herself. “I stand here still assuming that you ever will.”</p><p>“How dare you?”</p><p>This is what prompts Marya to stand from her own place. Hélène appears taller than she remembers her to be. That dress must hide a pair of heels higher than she used to favour. </p><p>“How dare you, young lady, speak to me in such a manner? You enter my house uninvited, dressed like Moscow’s most expensive whore, after abandoning your own husband of all people to go and live a life your faithless self seems acceptable, and you have the nerve, you have the gall to imply that you and I are in any way similar?”</p><p>“If you-“</p><p>“You will not interrupt me, Elena Bezukhova!” Marya practically roars, and Hélène’s dark eyes resemble nothing but a hunted, wounded animal, prey before a looming threat. “You have done more than enough talking for today. What you have made of Pierre alone would be reason enough for me to despise you as I do, but even after you have destroyed him, you break your vows and come crawling to me for what? For forgiveness? The absurd courage you have to think I would ever associate myself with the likes of you!”</p><p>“I come come to you out of desperation.”</p><p>“You may scream your pleas to me until your throat is dry, but the chorus of hell has many a singer.”</p><p>Hélène grits her teeth. She does not look away this time, and nor does Marya, but she is struggling in some manner, which would be unfortunate to Marya were she anybody else. </p><p>“You have never once been invited to my house, and I am simply trying to return the favour. I have come here-“</p><p>“You come to me from your Kuragin’s nest, full of whores and scoundrels like you no doubt. I would have a right mind to grab you by the arm and throw you out myself if I didn’t know how many places where not even god can say you have been. Covered in the handprints of anybody you can get to grab at you and carrying some other man’s child. </p><p>Elena’s eyes suddenly widen, her mouth falling slightly agape as her breath audibly hitches in her throat. An expected reaction for any woman, be they innocent or guilty (but particularly the innocent, for what shame would the guilty woman have to hide here where her husband shall not hear her laugh?), when accused of such a thing. Through Marya’s eyes, of course, this is a direct admission of guilt. </p><p>“Listen to me. You will leave my houses once, not one word from you. And mark my words, countess, should I ever have the misfortune of hearing your voice again, you shall pay for it in the eternal torment that eagerly awaits you.”</p><p>“Marya-“</p><p>“Leave.”</p><p>And so she does. Marya pulls back her curtains, but she does not watch her go. </p><p>And yet, as she sits alone in the comfortable silence, the room feels more empty than it ever had before.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>TW for this chapter in particular: talk of pregnancy, intrusive thoughts, religious imagery, implied child abuse and implied sexual assault</p><p>Apologies that this chapter took longer to get posted than the others! I hope you still enjoy it late as it is</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It is always easier to teach oneself and unhealthy habit than it is to unlearn it. And more often than not, this is a lesson learned the hard way. </p><p>Marya’s new behaviour would, to her acquaintances at least, appear to be nothing out of the ordinary. She is, after all, a religious woman. So seeing her attend some extra services would not be enough for anybody to suspect she is anything other than her usual self. </p><p>Behind closed doors it is obsessive. It is long drawn prayers, it is whispered pleas, it is the all-encompassing fear over the smallest of matters. It is obsession with reminding herself that she is above those who adamantly object to the path of the righteous that she follows. That she will now not even take a diverging step upon, not one glance will she give towards the road to hell, paved in gold and glitter and strings of pearls. </p><p>Sometimes she fears that she was too hard on the girl. That it was unwarranted, how she had so suddenly lashed out her claws. Because it had been sudden, and it really had been more than was necessary, but she deserved it. She had to. Marya is nothing like her. Marya will never be anything like her. She will not stand to be compared to such a beast. </p><p>She prays to exorcise the demon that plagues her. That chokes her, pulls at her lungs and tightens her chest whenever her mind wanders back to the one person she wishes to distance herself from the very most. Every time she thinks of Hélène, even if it is just her name, a strange anxiety burrows itself deep into her supposedly thick skin. The kind of anxiety that she never knew existed before. At least not within her emotional compass it was not a direction that she believed it could spin. </p><p>The memory of Hélène’s eyes feel like she is being garrotted with her own rosary. The recollection of Hélène’s neck like the fire of hell itself is searing through her torso. Her voice is a storm in her head. Her shoulders are a weight upon Marya’s own. The very existence of Hélène is what she is sure will kill her. </p><p>When daylight reigns over Russia, Marya is safe, because she can distract herself, her mind, from the unexplainable terror that her thoughts will bring her. It is the night that she fears. The night where her prayers do not guide her to salvation. Where she is forced to watch Hélène’s delicate hand travel up her body time and time again, where her eyes and her smile freeze her in place and her fingers grip her heart as it pounds like a drum. </p><p>Hélène, though. Hélène’s life progresses differently. </p><p>If that is what Marya thinks of her, then so be it. No skin off her back. If that is who she presumes her to be, then fine. She doesn’t need her approval. </p><p>Her first interaction with the older woman had been a mixture of many things. Of course, as are most things that she does, was an idea on behalf of her brother. They had been making the rounds with Pierre’s guests - some friends, some acquaintances, some there purely out of obligation. Teasing all of his people in ways they were all too old or too boring or whatever else made them such unbearable presences to be around. </p><p>It would be a lie to say that Marya had not intrigued her. She looked as conserved and judgemental as everybody else, but she was pretty, and that was more than could be said about the rest. </p><p>So she wanted to talk to her. And she had wanted to have fun with it. Is that such a crime? Apparently so, with how it had been met with immediate hostility. </p><p>But why she had continued is a different matter altogether; a matter than Hélène does not feel quite ready to consider. What would be the use of it? She doesn’t care for Marya anymore and Marya never exactly adored her, why bother reflecting on the past?</p><p>Her words, though, they stick with Hélène. The specifics are hazy, but the general overview is always there. Lurking in the back of her mind whenever she examines herself in a mirror each night before do scandalously daring to leave her own home. She can hear Marya’s degrading, feel the words swarm in the back of her mind. And, unlike Marya, she grows accustomed to them. That is all her life has been, has it not? Getting used to things. Not being happy with them. Merely adapting. </p><p>What was said before is not entirely true; there is one exact thing that Hélène recalls. Marya’s final accusation, entirely unjustified anywhere but whatever she has done to fortify her own mind against any truth that the countess leverages. The accusation that she is carrying a child that is not her husband’s. </p><p>At first it had disturbed Hélène endlessly. But now, she finds humour in it. In how absolutely absurd Marya had sounded forcing herself to be imposing. How absurd the very accusation was at that! How did she reach such a conclusion? What mental leaps she must have taken to reach that point. </p><p>But there is one thing she was right about. One thing that Hélène doesn’t notice as an issue, that she assumes is as natural and common a human trait as breathing. </p><p>She likes attention. She really likes attention. Having eyes on her could and would feel like a necessity to live. After all, she had grown up a girl born between two boys; a girl who was generally seen as talentless beside them. What they did for praise was exclusively accessible to them, something for her that fell short. </p><p>So she began misbehaving. She acted out. Her younger brother soon started to help her, too, noticing that- while the attention it did gain was negative - attention it still did get her.</p><p>He is disloyal, though. He would always run when the real danger came, and Hélène was left to fend for herself. Alone. </p><p>Maybe that is why her parents started scouting for her potential husband the second she was of age. They wanted to be rid of her. It doesn’t bother Hélène, the idea that her parents don’t like her, because, well... well, she doesn’t like them either. </p><p>She had believed, for a while, that her parents did love her. Tough love, strict love, the kind of love that never presented itself directly through words or affection or anything else, but it was still there, she was sure. All parents love their children. </p><p>Not these parents. Not this child. </p><p>They didn’t want a daughter. She wasn’t supposed to exist. She is part of this family only by name. They had never told Hélène these things, of course, why would they? But these are not things that she needs to be told. She is only oblivious when she wants to be. </p><p>They do not love her. They never did. They love her brothers dearly, even for all that Anatole would do to try and get on their nerves with his sister. They do not love her because she doesn’t deserve it. </p><p>They didn’t want a daughter, she didn’t want to be theirs. The sooner Hélène was wed off, the better for everybody involved. Some rich man gets a pretty wife. She gets a new name and the illusion of more money that she is not allowed to even look at without her husband’s permission. Her parents get rid of her.</p><p>If she hasn’t earned their love, if she doesn’t deserve it, it means nothing to her anymore. If her father cares not for her: fine. His world will go on turning. And so will hers. </p><p>That’s another thing that Hélène finds some strange sort of dark humour in; her existence, how very unplanned her life was. If her father could have controlled himself one night longer then they would have never be facing this issue, now would they? The issue of her. Of a girl. Of another woman in their family, god forbid. At least Hélène has self restraint, even if it is used sparingly. This will not happen to her. Which makes it all the more hysterical for Marya to have pinned it on her. </p><p>She’s never wanted any children of her own, but especially not with him. He would make a good father, she thinks, better than her own, at least (but mind you, that bar is not high, so you may take that compliment as you will). She, on the other hand, would be a downright awful mother. Liking children seems to be a bit of an entry level requirement to motherhood, as is a desire to sleep with your spouse at least once: both of which Hélène finds not applying to her. </p><p>They’ve slept together once, probably. She managed to get herself very drunk in preparation for their first night as husband and wife, so as for exactly what happened she could not tell you. It is probably better that way. Men to her are more of an object of entertainment than anything else, but he is too boring even for that. </p><p>Her husband gave her attention at first. But it was tiresome attention. It went nowhere interesting. The man held her up on a pedestal like something he had won, touching her so delicately as if she were a fragile statue who may break at any second. She grew very bored of it days into the ordeal, and there was not much looks or personality wise that could redeem him enough for her well enough to bother herself with him. So she went to seek her own enjoyment. </p><p>She did not go out intending to have an affair. It was just for a change of scenery at first - as impressive as her husband’s residence is, it gets boring very, very quickly, much like the man himself - and some time with her brother. How could she live in Moscow and go nowhere?</p><p>Unlike Marya, one thing that Hélène cannot stand is the prospect of being alone. Her own company terrifies her. She doesn’t know why or when it started. But loneliness is a great fear of hers.</p><p>It reminds her of how her father would lock her in her room while she screamed at the top of her lungs until her throat was aching and her sobs were weak. It reminds her of the times when she and Anatole were separated and she was left with nobody to sympathise with her. When she is left alone then she has to think. That’s all she can do. She could drift off into a daydream while entirely losing focus on her surroundings the way she used to do at church or recently did during the ceremony of her own wedding - not if she’s actively trying to. So instead, her mind will begin to race. And it will make her think of very horrific things that could keep her awake in the darkest of nights. Thoughts that would cause her to question how good of a person she could really be. </p><p>Marriage had ripped both her brother and her company away from her and put her in the home of a stranger she has nothing in common with. And then, when she had made attempts to find herself a new friend, they were shot down mercilessly like a deer straying away from its herd. So of course she started going out. What else was she supposed to do?</p><p>That is why she thought Moscow would be good for her. It is full of people, and many of them, closer in age to Hélène, are actually exciting to be in the company of. The youth of Moscow had formed their own society, their own culture, with its own fashion and etiquette and loose definitions of marriage. There were many new things for outsiders to learn. And Hélène, she is a fast learner. </p><p>She already drank, and she’s good at it to. When Anatole had introduced her to a group of his friends - because he has other people besides his sister - he had gotten her to show off this particular skill to one man who had been looking at her like a meal the second she had walked through the door. They’d had a competition of sorts, and of course, she had won, barely having had enough and trying to rope somebody else in to challenge her for round two. </p><p>Anatole strayed from her often, but for the first time in quite possibly her entire life, Hélène did not mind. There were plenty of other people who followed her like lions after a bleeding gazelle. She ignored them at first, playing a childish little game, until she noticed how that first look she had received was not exclusive to that first man. They all look hungry for her. </p><p>She was getting attention. Exciting new attention that she didn’t have to do anything to earn. This attention she likes. </p><p>She started to attend these events, these clubs, whenever she could, growing beyond the need for Anatole to escort her there. He was still her favourite, of course, still her closest company. But sometimes he was busy, and she was bored, and she does not compromise her wants for anybody anymore. What Hélène decides she wants, Hélène will go and take. </p><p>The women who surrounded her in this new environment are so unlike anything that Hélène could ever recall seeing before. They were so fascinating to watch, how they moved and dressed and behaved in ways the countess had been raised to disapprove of for reasons that now seem meaningless. Feelings for her own kind beginning to stir in her that she had never thought she could feel before. Admiration, was it? Perhaps jealousy. She did long for their beauty. Their clothes. All of the attention they get. </p><p>Perhaps the only good thing about being Pierre’s wife is how much money she has access to and how willingly he will give it away. So, after she mentally noted down the fashion trends and thought in detail through what would suit her, and with some very mild persuasion, Hélène bought herself a new wardrobe. A wardrobe that was suited much better to the popular socialite she longed to become since this mysterious new world was introduced to her. </p><p>She’s very good at adapting in this regard. Soon, she was as well integrated into Moscow’s social scene as anybody else. She knew now how to play this game. She knew what turned heads, she knew what was in and what was out. She knew how to keep those men and women hungry at her heels, longing to make her theirs. </p><p>Her wedding ring became an issue. Nobody cared for any sort of vows, sleeping with whoever they found attractive wherever they had some illusion of privacy. But it slowed the rate at which people tried to win her over, and she didn’t like that. Hélène liked to be surrounded with people. Hélène liked to have everybody looking at her, wishing they could be her or be with her at the very least. She liked the hunger people had in their eyes when they see her. She liked how she had been the talking point of the night when she had showed up, shoulders on display and her bust barely covered. </p><p>She didn’t take it off out of the worry that she might lose it. Not because she would mind, but it could lose her some of the power she holds over Pierre, and her lifestyle is shaping up to be an expensive one. Instead, she disguised it. She was wearing so many rings that it would be impossible to tell if any were there to signify her status. Nobody asks, and that is how she liked it. </p><p>When Anatole was around her, there was some sort of “look don’t touch” rule, apparently. Honestly, Hélène couldn’t think of why. Did people mistake them for a couple? They don’t have a particularly strong family resemblance, of course, but they so frequently and affectionately address each other as brother and sister. Or do they just not want to unsettle Anatole by feeling up his sister in front of him. Whatever the reason, whenever she broke away from Anatole’s guide, whenever she decided that she will go out by herself, people stopped treating her like a fine art exhibit and start touching what she displayed.  </p><p>It was a strange feeling. Another one she could not place, but not the same she had noticed towards the women who’s rank she was quickly ascending to. Perhaps she felt uneasy about it because she could not see the faces of the men who’s voices she could hear and who’s hands she could feel. Or it could be the strength with which they gripped her wrists or her waist and how she could hear them laugh amongst themselves when she broke away. It’s part of the culture that she must get used to, she decided. A mannerism she must get used to. And she’s a fast learner, after all.</p><p>Her excuse of visiting Anatole falls through eventually. She had expected it would. She doesn’t know how he found out, but one night Pierre asks her where she is going, and when he points out her lie, how he knows Anatole is not in Moscow that week, she does not bother to insist. </p><p>She does not tell him where she has actually been. It’s none of his business, as she says, what she does with her time. She doesn’t pry about his hobbies, he should return the favour. </p><p>By now, their marriage is showing signs of an ill fate. He will still tell her that he loves her regularly. She does not, never has and never will. However, she is never around in the evenings. She is never with him when she is not out doing god knows what. Getting drunk on vodka nobody else can handle and returning home in the dead of night barely on her feet. </p><p>Pierre is not accusatory in his tone. He pries no further into where his wife has been or what she has been doing. But he sighs, closes his book and looks up at Hélène, who is thinking of nothing but how late she must be running by now. </p><p>“Elena,” he starts, which is already a bad foot to go off of. </p><p>She hates that name. There are few things in this world that Hélène will declare that she hates. But that name is one of them. </p><p>“We haven’t spent... much time together, as of recent. And I’m learning so much about you, and who you are...” </p><p>Pierre gestures to Hélène’s apparel, which she first interprets as a negative gesture, but there is a sweet smile on his face suggests otherwise. </p><p>“... but I feel that I hardly know you. I barely see you anymore, and- well, you are my wife. We should make some more time for us.”</p><p>“For us?”</p><p>“For us. To be together as husband and wife should. We can dine together, talk about our lives. And, well, we... we haven’t made love since our wedding day-“</p><p>“Pierre, my darling,” she interrupts him before he can elaborate any further on that, “I am running on an exceptionally tight schedule, can we please resume this later?”</p><p>She doesn’t wait for an answer before she has made her move out of the door. </p><p>And that is when things begin to crumble. </p><p>There was no one moment when Hélène noticed the decline in her marriage. It was gradual, begrudgingly slow as Pierre began to put the pieces together. </p><p>Hélène had still kept herself from having a true affair. She’s exchanged drunken kisses, let mysterious hands explore her body, but none had torn her clothes off with more than their own imaginations. None had progressed their desperation to touch her body beyond a sudden grab towards her torso. But it was easy to imagine that she had, when she starts coming home with messy hair and bruises on her neck and her red lipstick mostly kissed away. </p><p>And he never directly addresses it, strangely enough, but he has made his assumption and he lives with it. He drinks those feeling away, but it does not have the affect on him that he desires. He still remembers her. He can drink more than her, too. Sometimes, when she catches sight of the empty bottles littering the floor of his study as she walks the hallways alone at night, Hélène wonders if he might drink himself to death. And she also wonders, as much as she dislikes him, why that possibility does not particularly worry her. </p><p>Pierre is not a surprising man, but he manages to catch Hélène off guard once. When she comes home late into the night, closer to sunrise than sunset, looking an absolutely beautiful wreck. To reach their bedroom, Hélène passes by Pierre’s study. His light is on. She doesn’t notice that he is watching her until he speaks up. </p><p>“Elena.”</p><p>She pauses, rolling her eyes as she turns towards him. </p><p>A wreck she is. Beauty does not mask all of that. Some of her curls hang loose, her lipstick smudged to one side, one sleeve of her dress torn and her skirts clearly pulled at. </p><p>For a while, the two Bezukhov’s stare each other down, examining the mess that their spouse has found themselves in tonight. Pierre never looks good, but tonight is notably worse than usual. His hair is all over the place, falling over his face and obscuring his glasses. One glass, almost empty, was held loosely in his hand, another broken carelessly on the floor beside his desk. </p><p>“You’re up late,” Hélène growls condescendingly. </p><p>“Who have you been with?”</p><p>“Now that’s quite an accusation, darling.”</p><p>Pierre finishes his drink, then he sits in silence. Hélène, already bored, rests a hand on her hip and raises an eyebrow. </p><p>“Do you have something more to say to me or can I go to bed?”</p><p>Pierre takes another pause, much to Hélène’s frustration. </p><p>“We need an heir.”</p><p>Hélène couldn’t contain her laugh of surprise. She looks at her husband like he was insane, but his face was as stony and serious as she had ever experienced. </p><p>“I’m sorry?” Hélène asks, shaking her head in an amused state of shock. “Pierre, really, you can’t be serious.”</p><p>“We...” he trails off drunkenly, setting his glass down. “We need a child out of this...” he gestures vaguely, but he doesn’t finish his sentence. “We need somebody to carry on our name.”</p><p>“And why bring this up now? Really, husband, can’t we save this conversation until daylight?”</p><p>“I want your child to be mine. Not some stranger’s you met at a club.”</p><p>Hélène feels like she’s been punched in the stomach. </p><p>“Excuse me?” Hélène asks, her entertained expression fading. “How dare you! I-“</p><p>“Take a look at yourself, Elena! Do you know what you look like? Who do you think you’re fooling?”</p><p>It is then when Hélène takes notice of her own appearance. Of how dishevelled she has become, of the scratch marks that she doesn’t recall getting on her shoulder, of the traces of lipstick marks upon her wrists. It does appear quite undeniably incriminating, doesn’t it?</p><p>“Oh, please!” Hélène snaps in return. “Think what you will of me, your opinion doesn’t keep me up at night. But I will not carry any baby of yours!”</p><p>Pierre stands up. Hélène doesn’t move. </p><p>He reminds her of her father. He liked drinking too. She wonders momentarily if he still does. He liked to demand things of her - not anything of this nature in particular, of course - and he didn’t take kindly to the word “no” being thrown his way. Yes, he does remind her of her father. That is not a compliment in the slightest. </p><p>“You are my wife!”</p><p>“And?”</p><p>“You are to carry my child!”</p><p>“You have no say over what I do!” </p><p>“Do you know how you have humiliated me?” Pierre asks rhetorically, speaking over Hélène when she tries to respond anyway. “By stepping out months into our marriage and not doing so much as to provide me an heir? You hardly even let your presence grace our bed. I am ordering you, Elena, to-“</p><p>“I would never stoop so low as to birth your spawn!”</p><p>It is when Pierre steps out from behind his desk and towards her that Hélène feels fear rise within her. The only difference is that Hélène hits this man before he can get to her. She had only ever fantasied about that before. </p><p>Her hand makes contact with his face before she even realised what she’s doing. She shoves Pierre away and slams the study door in his face. And then she runs. She runs out again, pulling a cloak over herself to hide her torn dress and running until her feet fail her. </p><p>She ends up home. Not where she lives now. Where her home still is. By virtue of one person who lives there. </p><p>Hélène tosses a small stone up at that person’s window and she hopes that he is awake enough to hear her. </p><p>He is. All Anatole needs to do is look out of his window and catch sight of his sister to understand why she is here. </p><p>He must have ran downstairs, because the doors open not even a minute after Hélène had alerted him. She bolts towards her brother, wrapping her arms around him with a grip tighter than she had ever given him in recent memory. </p><p>“Sister, dear sister...” Anatole mutters comfortingly, gently stroking her messy hair. “What on earth happened to you?”</p><p>Hélène does not cry. She is shaking like mad, her nails digging into her brother’s back with trembling fingers and trembling hands, but she is not crying. </p><p>“Don’t ask,” is all that Hélène will tell him. “Can I stay the night?”</p><p>The younger agrees, guiding her inside. </p><p>Hélène manages to fix the tear in her dress with some sewing skills her mother had once taught her some time long ago, some long forgotten time when the hopes of her growing into a real lady were still alive. It was a clean tear, thankfully, and Anatole talks about something or other while she works away, which eases her still shaky hands. </p><p>They share Anatole’s bed as they had done when they were children, when they would hide away under the covers until their parents gave up searching. But now, whenever his hands make a move for her waist, wether intentionally or not, Hélène moves a little further away from him. </p><p>Darkness holds no safety for her. Darkness is where people grab her as she staggers drunkenly around the club. Darkness is where people call her name and talk her into a corner until they have their lips against her. </p><p>She doesn’t like the darkness. And even with Anatole beside her, she feels terrifyingly alone. </p><p>She is all alone again only an hour or two later, when Anatole has to sneak her out silently so that she goes unseen by her parents. Again, her comfort is lost, and she is alone. She does not want to go back to Pierre, but she does not want to remain out in the cold of Moscow. So she goes to the only other person that she knows of. </p><p>Marya must have mentioned her address before in passing, because she finds her way there without much trouble. She doesn’t live far, and - despite not being home at the time - has left a window open. So she waits. </p><p>Hélène knows that Marya doesn’t like her. She has known since they first met. How couldn’t she? It would be a difficult thing to ignore. But one tactic has worked on everybody else that she has met recently, and as a result, she decides to play her way with Marya the same. </p><p>Marya throws her out, and Hélène has to go home. That night, the doors are locked. </p><p>She is alone.</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>More TWs for this chapter: alcoholism, drug addiction/overdose, needles, domestic violence, implied sexual content, suicidal thoughts, talk of pregnancy (briefly) and Anatole being a total creep.</p><p>I have tried to add everything I think needs to be there, but be warned that this is a tough chapter and I am sorry in advance. I promise you all that it is going to get better after this. Just stick with me and I will try to get the next chapter out as soon as possible</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>What will soon become of Hélène could be easily called a fall from grace, but she never did imagine herself to possess any. </p><p>Pierre’s tactic doesn’t work on his wife for long. Foolishly, he decided to lock only the doors. After perhaps a week or so, kept indoors with nothing to do but argue with her husband when they did acknowledge each other, Hélène opens a window on the ground floor to let the cold winter breeze dry her tears. </p><p>She closes the window behind her to ensure that her husband is none the wiser. And with that, she is gone. </p><p>She doesn’t particularly want to be at the club - she has a headache already from how much she had been shouting - but where else is there for her to go? She doesn’t have many options and she doesn’t have the time to sit and choose between them; but it is the conclusion she would have reached anyway. It is the evening and she wants to see her brother, and she can very easily guess where he is. Besides, she could use a change of scenery tonight of all times. </p><p>When she arrives, the club seems louder than before. Brighter and more crowded than she remembered it being. But she will put up with it. Her brother thankfully stands out in a crowd, so he will not be hard for her to find. </p><p>To her own surprise, Hélène is greeted by name when she enters through the door. People know who she is. They remember her. They remember her! She’s been doing this right! She is remembered here! And people are happy to see her here! </p><p>Somebody greets her as countess in an overly formal tone, which makes her laugh, and he hands her a shot. She drinks it without a second thought. </p><p>She has friends here. People who genuinely like her. And when that same man grabs her by the waist and pressed her strangely close to his body, she allows it. Because now she knows that he likes her, and if this is how he shows it, she will let him. </p><p>In the strange lighting that this place provides, she doesn’t ever notice his eyes looking only downwards, never properly meeting her gaze as that would require him to stop his staring at her chest while his hands explore her. When she catches him making a move for her neck, she purposefully stops him in his tracks. The way his grin suddenly flickers away, the way his fingers dig into her, the way he grabs her forearm, that she can’t seem to understand, but her expression doesn’t falter one little bit. </p><p>“Ah ah ah, not yet. Patience is a virtue, my darling,” she tells him in a tone that she has found works wonders over men. “I’m looking for my brother. Where is he?”</p><p>The man laughs and Hélène tilts her head. </p><p>“He is here, isn’t he?”</p><p>“Sure he is,” the other answers, gesturing over to one of the far corners of the room. Immediately, Hélène can identify him. She knows her brother anywhere. “I should warn you though. He’s found other entertainment in your absence.”</p><p>With that, he lets a perplexed Hélène go. That statement doesn’t make sense to her when it is first said to her, and even less so when she watches the man presumably tell his group of friends, who all start to laugh, some giving her pitiful glances. She doesn’t care. She just wants her brother. </p><p>The countess practically sprints over to where her younger sibling had been pointed out to her with the same childlike enthusiasm she had when he had first visited her after she was married. She hasn’t been anywhere near him since she fled her home with messy hair and a torn dress. What was in reality two weeks at most felt like an eternity for her. And now she has found him, and the only thing that prevents her from calling out his name as soon as he is close enough to hear her is the sight that she becomes witness to. </p><p>It takes a moment or two for her mind to process what she is looking at. Anatole, with a woman pressed up against the wall, with his hand on her chest and her arms wrapped around his neck. For as much as she writhes adoringly underneath him, they do not move, save for Anatole’s hips pressing into his new decided entertainment for the night. Mind you, both are fully clothed, this is only a warm up of sorts. There are rooms above the club for this exact purpose - and for how it advances - but perhaps nobody has told them. </p><p>Hélène has always known that Anatole had his affairs. But she has never had visual evidence before - of course, not until now. </p><p>Watching them unsettles Hélène deeply, but glancing around, she can find nobody else that could be mistaken for her brother. Her younger brother that she had grown up with, now very clearly a man behaving as men are expected to behave. Additionally, when the next second passes, Hélène realises that she recognises the woman in her brother’s grasp. She doesn’t remember her name if she ever learned it, but she certainly knows that face, or what she can make out of it when they pull away for breath. And she’s had her attention grabbed by her attire before too, how it all shimmers so perfectly even underneath this particular lighting. </p><p>“Anatole!” Hélène calls, but he doesn’t hear her.</p><p>Until somebody alerts Anatole, Hélène does nothing but stand there idly as the seconds pass, unsure of what she is supposed to do. She’s not about to run up to her brother and tear him off his girl herself. Another woman does her job for her, thankfully, though she doesn’t need to rip the pair apart rather than just shake her brother’s shoulder roughly enough to distract him. He pulls away and turns in the direction the other woman gestures, catching sight of his sister. He whispers one last thing to the woman against the wall, who gently drags her hand down the side of his face and doesn’t even do as much as glance to Hélène, and with that, he leaves her, and there is finally some space between their bodies. </p><p>“Sister!” Anatole calls to her. No more words can leave his mouth before Hélène has trapped him in a strong embrace, burying her face in his shoulder. She feels Anatole’s arms snaking comfortably around her, making her feel safe and guarded for the first time in as long as she can remember. She has missed him. </p><p>“Where have you been?”</p><p>“Pierre tried to keep me inside,” she explains with only a slight reluctance, “but the old fool should try a little harder next time, shouldn’t he? You can’t keep me away forever.”</p><p>She moves herself back so that she can look her brother in the eyes. Piercing blue as always, even in this dim light. The kind of eyes that could see right through you should they try. Hers are dark and mysterious, the kind that some tend to favour, but honestly, Hélène has always envied his. She envies a lot about him. </p><p>“And what about you, Tolya? That’s the first I’ve seen of how you treat your women. Would it be appropriate to ask how many children you’ve fathered?” Hélène teases, sliding one hand down to rest upon her brother’s chest. The younger of the two smirks and shrugs slightly, glancing over to the small crowd of women, several of which wearing lipstick smudged beyond repair. And, in saying that, Anatole’s lips do appear to be tinted a deeper shade of pink than usual. </p><p>“Pleasure is a true passion in life, Lena,” he explains, stroking up her back. “I take whatever I want whenever I please, life is too short to do anything otherwise.”</p><p>“A wise man you always have been, dear brother,” she tells him with a smile. “But, before you get back to your pursuits, I need a drink. Care to accompany me?”</p><p>Again, as she and her brother navigate their way through the club, Hélène has her shield. Nobody approaches her, does nothing more than allow their fingertips to graze her bare shoulders that have caused such conflict between her and her husband. She can feel the gazes upon her, the attention that she adores hers and hers alone. But with Anatole at her side, nobody advances beyond that in any major sort of way. </p><p>Hélène has the money to buy the most expensive vodka she wants, but in all honesty, she couldn’t care less in this moment about the quality of her alcohol as long as it gets into her system. Anatole is very intrigued by exactly how rich his sister now is. He asks questions upon questions, each just a hint more prying the the last. Hélène doesn’t mind providing him with his answers, though. Her brother has always been a curious one. </p><p>One drink turns to two, then two turns to three, and soon enough Hélène feels like she has returned to some kind of normalcy. The one deviation from what had become her routine for these nights was how she refused to leave her brother’s side. He doesn’t ask why and she doesn’t explain it. She hopes that she will not need to. </p><p>Anatole, in her absence, has gathered himself quite the group of friends. Mostly men, some women who cling to their arms. When she introduces herself, they all already know who she is. Anatole, apparently, has mentioned her quite a lot. </p><p>Hélène quickly becomes the focus of some of Anatole’s specifically male acquaintances. The women are preoccupied. They ask about her marriage, which she quickly explains is not her preferred topic for conversation, and they gladly move on. Eventually, one offers her another drink, and despite having money of her own and plenty of vodka already in her system, she agrees. </p><p>The pair split off into their own conversation after the countess has emptied her first glass, and Hélène thinks that she likes him. She does like him, actually. He seems interested in her even if his eyes do wander and even if his questions aren’t particularly meaningful. Better yet, he hasn’t tried her for further answers about her husband or her money. He’s handsome, too. She still doesn’t think much of men, really, but she doesn’t have to like them for them to like her, which is the goal. But she enjoys her time with this one. He has a nice voice and his hands are not rough with her when she do decide they want to learn by touch. And he gives her drinks. A lot of them, actually. He hands them to her without her ever once asking. She drinks them all, though. She drinks what he serves her until the world around her is spinning. </p><p>Her memories aren’t clear from then on. At one point she remembers laughing so much she almost falls before being caught by somebody. She remembers kissing somebody too. She remembers being pinned up against a wall with strong hands keeping her in place and pulling up her skirts. And she remembers being helped up a flight of stairs that she doesn’t recognise by somebody that she vaguely does with an incredible sense of tiredness washing over her. </p><p>She wakes up the following morning with a pounding headache, an uncomfortable sensation in her hips and absolutely no idea what just happened to her. It takes her a while to open her eyes, because even the light of the early morning is too bright for her. She is tired. When she does finally open her eyes, she does so with heavy eyelids and an aversion to the glare shining off the white walls around her. </p><p>That is when she realises that she has no idea where she is. </p><p>All of a sudden she has bolted upright, fear giving her the rush of adrenaline she needed to complete such a simple task. The room isn’t as grand as she is used to, containing basically nothing but the bed she finds herself lying in. There is no wardrobe, and the white paint is partially peeling from the walls. To her side of the bed, her expensive clothes lay discarded. And then, to her other side, is the man who had bought her all of those drinks the night before. </p><p>Her first reaction is no reaction at all. She just stands, dressed herself, and silently exits the room, which she now understands is one of those above the club she has treated as her safe haven. </p><p>When she is back home, she starts to cry. </p><p>It’s not loud nor violent as she has become used to with her tears. She just cries, feeling her hands shake, for a reason she can’t quite place. She is upset, but she doesn’t know why. But she is crying and she can’t seem to stop. </p><p>What reason does she have to be upset? All a man did was sleep with her. She admired all of those popular women, worshipped them for their style and their power over men; this is what they did too. They let men take them to bed. </p><p>Anyway, this confirms her thoughts; he did like her. Why else would he want to sleep with her? He had bought her all those drinks, asked her about her life and listened to her ramble. She must have made a friend. Or perhaps something more, if she had decided that she wanted to sleep with him. And she must have said yes too, even if she doesn’t remember it.</p><p>It must have been her decision. How couldn’t it be? She had always been in control of the men around her. Except her father, and her brother, and now her husband. And the men who’d grab her in from shadows of the club. Except for them, she has control. So it must have been her decision, or at least it was she who had caused it to happen. She must have given some signal, some indicator, some spoken word, that told him she must have wanted this. </p><p>Even so, there is a strange feeling of betrayal in her stomach. Guilt and remorse twisting and coiling around her lungs, making it so much harder to breathe. An inexplicable feeling of something being terribly wrong. </p><p>She doesn’t even know his name. Well, he probably told her, but she doesn’t remember now. But no, that isn’t his fault. It’s hers. It has to be hers. All of this is hers. She drank so much she doesn’t remember her night, and who else could there be to blame for that but her? </p><p>Eventually she stands, and the first thought that reaches her mind is how much she wants to bathe. Something about her feels unclean. Her hair is a mess and her skin feels strange. It feels too touched now, like all of those hands who’s identities are still to her unknown have taken something away from her, bit by bit. </p><p>When her bath is drawn, she rests her head back and tries to relax, breathing slowly and deeply in hopes that her heartbeat may regain a regular pace. But there are still those thoughts lurking in the back of her mind. Feelings she cannot shake or scrub away. </p><p>Honestly, how ridiculous she is being! Hadn’t she wanted to be high in the ranks of Moscow’s society? Hadn’t she longed to be one of those women who she endlessly envied? Hadn’t she wanted this? How could she not have, with the way she dresses and taunts men with her body that they couldn’t touch? She had wanted this. And besides, there will be an upside; if letting the men have their way was what helped those women rise in the ranks, then it shall do the same for her. This is what she is supposed to do. This is how she makes people like her. </p><p>And so, when Hélène, against her better judgement, returns that night, she doesn’t slip away from the first man who pulls her in like a fish on a line. She plays her cards just like she always does, with lowered eyelids and a purr in her voice. The only difference this time is how she gives him the reigns, offers him control over the situation. The night is young and she is sober - when the time does eventually come, she has no idea who is pushing her down into the sheets. </p><p>And it happens again. And again. And again. And she is rewarded for it. </p><p>She gets more attention now. There are more people talking to her, more men desiring and more women envying. The clothes that once made her feel powerful, like she was defying what rules had been laid out for her, begin to feel like an extension of herself. Like they are a part of her being, even if most of them are thrown to the side by the end of almost every night. </p><p>And she learns to enjoy herself. Whenever she has a fight with Pierre, she knows there will be somebody waiting for her to help her feel better. The nights that she does remember keep her mind off of things; it’s a distraction if nothing else, because alcohol has lost its power over her with how much she’s used it. </p><p>Hélène’s newfound status elevates her to the ranks she had longed for. The men who have been intimate with her use her as a bragging right. The others talk about the things they’d like to do to her. They think that she can’t hear them. Those comments are taken by her as a good thing. Everybody loves her. Everybody wants her. She is wanted here. </p><p>With her high societal rank, she begins to attend more events. Operas, plays, parties hosted by her richer acquaintances. Anatole is always the one invited, and she accompanies him as per usual. They would always sit at each other’s sides and dance with one another when the time came. </p><p>But in the clubs, she has a reputation. And it spreads. It seeps in to this chapter of her life like water through a poorly built dam. Not that she was ever trying to hide it, no, but it makes itself apparent without her ever allowing it to. </p><p>It could have been her fashion that tipped them off - her scandalous choices for outfits that are made only more outrageous given the fact that she is married (which is a fact that everybody knows, apparently). Her dresses make her feel beautiful, though; they are not something she would ever happily change for anybody. Or maybe it was her demeanour, or her jewels, or her very existence outside of her home without a husband. Whatever it was, potentially even a past lover going around telling the tale, she does begin to hear her name whispered in less than positive ways. With derogatory descriptors attached to it and looks as sharp as knives directed her way. </p><p>They don’t matter, those people; they are all old - older than her, at least, which makes them old even if she is still very young - and boring, not an interesting bone in their bodies. And yet their remarks stick with her. Against all odds, she can play back each word muttered about her in perfect detail. Sometimes, she does, even when she doesn’t want to. She cannot help but replay them in her mind, and - most contrastingly - she is unable to recall a single compliment she has ever received in such detail besides those she is rewarded with in bed. And honestly, she isn’t particularly fond of those.</p><p>Hélène concludes that she prefers the club any day. </p><p>She keeps this routine up for weeks, perhaps a month or so. There are certain men who come back for more, others who she only takes once. Sometimes it is in a bed, others it’s in a darkened hallway. Sometimes she can feel the heated air clinging to every inch of her skin, others she stays as covered up as she was when she arrived. She could find herself face down in the cheap sheets of a bed smaller than what she’s used to or find her knees aching from kneeling on the ground too long. There’s variety, at least, in how she goes about winning people over, making sure that she is as adored here as can be. </p><p>But she always has to bathe afterwards. Her skin always feels tainted, it always feels dirty, when she is back home. And it’s a feeling she can’t seem to get rid off no matter how hard she tries, no matter how much she cleans, and it occupies her mind when the next man takes her into his arms, keeping her on edge and making her seductive act seem just a little less real. Not as if they care, of course. </p><p>She doesn’t tell Anatole, but he knows. Not the specifics, but he is aware of something off with his sister. He knows her better than anyone, after all, better than possibly even Hélène herself. </p><p>When he asks, she denies it, but her acting is not at its usual standard that night. When he repeats himself, she does not go into detail, but admits that yes, there is something greatly bothering her. </p><p>“Oh, Lena, you know I hate to see you upset, my dear,” her brother tells her, to which she responds with no more than a smile. “But here. I know what might help.”</p><p>Hélène, about to deny him, not wanting another drink right now, is surprised when her brother hands her a syringe. She looks up at him, confused, though she almost instinctively knows what it is.  </p><p>As usual, her brother helps her.</p><p>The feeling of morphine coursing through her veins does lessen her issues, actually, and it’s not long before she is back for seconds. It’s a painkiller, isn’t it? She’s not all that knowledgable on the topic of drugs of this kind, but it could certainly be of some help to her. Hélène doesn’t take a lover that night. She has other priorities this time. </p><p>Drugs and drinks are what fuel Hélène from that night onwards. Reluctant as she initially was towards them, everybody around her is doing them. And she wants to fit in, doesn’t she? </p><p>Anatole, as it turns out, has quite the access to many things, be they in syringes or tablets or powders; Hélène decides she wants to try them all. The affects to enhance her night, and even when she is at home and her head is pounding, telling her to go and get more right that very second, that’s something she’s sure she can learn to live with. They fog up her memories again, but she doesn’t mind. After all, what is there to remember? She knows what happens whenever she finds a man who particularly likes her. </p><p>The times in which that does not happen, she spends with her brother and his people, who are her people by extent. They demonstrate how best to utilise what medications she has, how much to take to get the most out of anything. Thankfully for her, where or what his money is being spent on is the last thing on Pierre’s list of things to condemn Hélène for. </p><p>And he does. Oh, he does. They fight more than ever now, the Bezukhov’s, and Hélène always resorts to insults. Piercing little digs at his confidence that are specifically crafted to get underneath his skin. She feels as though they are validated now, since she has evidence that there are better men out there for her. More handsome men, more desirable men, more affectionate men, more caring men who would have treated her better than he could ever hope to. </p><p>He calls her a whore. She doesn’t care one bit. She blames her promiscuity on him, taunting him with the fact that she would never have required her relationships on the side if he had been able to please her. No wonder he was unmarried for so long. What woman in her right mind would want him above what she has seen is available?</p><p>The marks start showing up on her arms permanently. If you didn’t know better you could say the scars were freckles. But her eyes start to darken too, the skin underneath them displaying exhaustion she didn’t even assume she was suffering from, and her arms start to thin and her collarbones jut out just a little bit more. </p><p>Pierre comments on her physique, which in turn prompts their next fight. Hélène telling him he has no say over her body, Pierre reminding her that he’s her husband, as a matter of fact, but clearly marriage means nothing to her, and Hélène makes some biting remark about how he is the worst man she’s had in bed even while her other lovers were intoxicated beyond belief. </p><p>That was the first time she had admitted her her physical affairs. </p><p>That was the first time Pierre hit her. </p><p>It was a strike to the face powerful enough to send her staggering to the side, clutching her stinging skin with one hand. For a second or two, both are still. Both processing what has just happened. And then, as she has done before, Hélène runs away from him as fast as she possibly can. </p><p>That was the first time he hit her. After the fact, he does regret it, but even so, it would not be the last. </p><p>Hélène is beautiful but she is unhealthy. She practically lives off of the substances in the club - she does not remember the last time she ate food or drank water or slept before midnight. Hélène is unhealthy. This is merely her body trying to show her what she has done. What she is still doing. And continuously, Hélène ignores it. She does not believe the signs, she does not believe her own body. They are minor issues, these, she soothes herself as she paints over her paling complexion. She is brilliant with makeup, Hélène, but she still knows what lurks beneath. The knows the golden glow she once possessed it dulling. She knows her bruises are a more striking shade of green than anything she’s ever worn. It will just require her a little more work to forget it’s all there. Hélène is beautiful and that is all that matters to her. </p><p>She slips further and further down, forgetting everything that had once been her idea of normalcy. There is Anatole and there is vodka and medicine and there are men who bite her and grip her and bed her no matter how thin she gets. They like her better that way sometimes, which only encourages her to keep it up. </p><p>He drinks. She taunts. They fight. She gets hurt. She drinks. She medicates. She pleases somebody else. The cycle continues. It’s a routine if nothing else, and it’s a routine she likes. Even when she does find herself bursting into tears at random intervals and flinching at the lightest of touches. </p><p>Hélène has become a fragile enough woman to break. She’s so very far gone beyond her own realisation. Sleeping until mid day and only dressing herself to draw in the praise from other people who’s names she will never learn. She skips meals and forgets to hydrate and lives on whatever is handed to her in the darkness of a nightclub. Negative remarks from people she shouldn’t care about stick with her more than any compliment ever has. She can’t sleep even when she tries to. Hélène is always on the edge of a cliff on a stormy winter’s day. It would only take one gale to throw her over. </p><p>It is one night with one man that Hélène reaches her breaking point. She in on her back for once, staring up at the ceiling as her partner buried his face in her shoulder. Her legs are tense, her body jolting every now and then, but he seems to be undeniably closer to finishing than she is. They usually are. </p><p>Hélène has done this dance many a time before tonight. She knows the steps, and when she hears the hitches and whines in her lover’s breath, she knows what is coming next. She prefers them to finish on the sheets rather than her stomach or her back or her face, on the occasion that they demand it of her. She always falls asleep feeling uncomfortably sticky and warm when they do, even after she’s cleaned it off. If it’s on the bed, then it is easier to avoid. Still not ideal, but the options here are not plentiful. This time, however, she gets neither. </p><p>When he stops moving all of a sudden, still breathing heavily and buried deep, Hélène is perplexed. It is only when she feels warmth inside of her that she realises what has happened. </p><p>A deep sense of horror hollows out Hélène’s chest. The man, who has bitten one last mark into her, pulls back. He catches sight of the terrified look on the countess’ face. And breathlessly, he laughs. He laughs. </p><p>“Did... did you...?” Hélène tries to ask, still utterly breathless, but cannot finish as her mouth is suddenly covered. </p><p>“Say it’s your husband’s,” the man above her taunts, keeping his hand clasped over her mouth despite how she fights to move it. “I’m sure this isn’t your first scare. Both with how you parade yourself around.”</p><p>Hélène finally breaks herself free and squirms out of his grasp to slap the man across the face. A split second later she has grabbed her clothes from where they were thrown and with that, she flees. </p><p>She shuts herself into one of the other empty rooms, shoddy and cheap and so beneath her to be in. But she is in it, and she’s been in them many a time now. She dresses herself, caring not for what she looks like, and leaves. She wants to go home, and strangely enough, home does not feel like Anatole anymore. Home is not her brother. Home is not her husband. Home is just the building she is confined to. </p><p>When she walks through the door, Hélène bolts up the stairs as fast as she finds is physically possible. She returns to her room, her lair, her habitat, where she has lived all these months. It is the only safety that she has left now. </p><p>Pierre, oddly enough, is out. And if the servants hear her, she doesn’t care. So she goes into her room, she locks the door, and she starts to scream. </p><p>She hardly even realises that she’s doing it at first. She didn’t even mean to start. But she screams. She screams and screams and screams and she doesn’t even know why anymore. She just wants to. She needs to. </p><p>Hélène has reacted like this once before. The day her parents informed her who she was to be married to. Of course, she had known that one day she would be married off, but she hadn’t expected it to be so soon, or to him. She said no adamantly. And when that answer was rejected, she said it again, only louder. And louder. </p><p>Fights with her father were never pretty. She didn’t fear his authority anymore, nor did she respect it, as if she ever had. But he was unmoving on his stance and couldn’t have cared less about her genuinely valid protests if he had tried. When he grew tired of her yelling, he lifted her over one shoulder like a misbehaving child and all but threw her into her room. He’s locked the door, and in response, Hélène tried to claw her way out. She scratched and hit and kicked at the door, screaming incoherently as she did. She didn’t stop until she collapsed, having exhausted herself entirely from her crying. This is similar in all but motivation. </p><p>Somehow, the selfishness of this one man sends her entire illusion crumbling down. Nobody in those clubs has ever cared for her. Not the men. Not the women. Even Anatole she now finds herself doubting. They found her attractive, they wanted a taste. They wanted her. Just like she had thought, they wanted her alright. But not out of any care. Not out of friendship. Not out of anything but desire. </p><p>She has no friends. Not one person who she matters to. Her brother has better entertainment than her. She is little more than an inconvenience to him. As for all those she had so foolishly assumed were her friends - she doesn’t know what to think anymore. She can form no clear conclusions about anything bar one clear thought that rings through her mind, louder than any shriek she could produce. </p><p>There is nobody in this world who loves her. She loves Anatole, she loves him so very much, but clearly, the feeling is not mutual. He has watched her spiral downwards up close and could clearly identify what was happening - but he had done nothing but make it worse. He got her hooked on drugs, he let his friends take advantage of her delusional states, god knows what he had done while she was entirely out of it. He doesn’t love her. Has he ever? Even when they were children he would stray from her side when things got tough. Is she little more than one of his flings to him? Would she have met their fate were she not his sister? Has he ever done to his women what has just been done to Hélène? Used her up until he was satisfied and left her with a child without a care in the world; has she ever even truly known who her brother is? </p><p>Pierre had loved her once, but she had spit that love in the face and thrown it to the side. He despises her now. She has destroyed him, and she does not regret it, but god what she would give to just know that he would still care if he found her like this. To know that he would still comfort her, that he would try to help her. But he wouldn’t. She knows he wouldn’t. Not anymore. Not after everything she has said and done to him and what he has done to her.</p><p>And then there is the case of Marya. That is a name she hasn’t thought about in a very long while. What would she do? Would she be happy to know what has become of the girl she so greatly despised since they had first met? Is this what she had wanted for her? </p><p>God, what has she done? Marya was her one chance to genuinely make any kind of connection and she had time and time again pushed her further away, made her look down upon her. No doubt Marya has heard about what has become of the countess, given the whispers she has heard about herself in the older crowds of Moscow. Has she joined in? Has she shared the stories of their meetings?</p><p>She had laughed at her comments when she had first heard them. Months ago when she was a more naive woman. About the names she had called her and how she had assumed she had been sleeping with anybody who wanted her. How she had accused her of carrying another man’s child. She had laughed. And now look at her. </p><p>As if Marya was a prophet, some fortune teller she hadn’t wanted, she had predicted Hélène’s downfall what felt like eons in advance. Every little accusation had come true. What would she think of her if she knew? She would be glad, wouldn’t she? She must have been ever since she heard of Hélène scandalous behaviour. She must have been anticipating her downfall. </p><p>Maybe that’s how she can make people happy. How she can give people a trace of positivity to associate with the memory of her. If she does them the favour or ridding them of the leech that is Hélène Bezukhova. She could escape, too, from this life. From what she has become. She’s barely above the first she walks on now. Scum of the earth would be an apt name. </p><p>She’s deserved this. Every bit of it. She deserves all the bruises and the headaches and the addictions and the indifference and the hatred. She deserves how her throat aches when her screams cease, how her face feels stiff with tears. She deserves how her legs ache as she stands and walks towards her door. </p><p>She’s deserved this but there is a way out yet. Her options are not run entirely thin. And even if the life inside of her is still too new to be ended, well... the side affect wouldn’t hurt either. </p><p>There are painkillers in the house. Strong ones, too. And she knows where they are kept. She knows how many not to take. She knows how many that she will. </p><p>When she enters the bathroom, she catches sight of her reflection in their large mirror. Her tears have cleaned her face of most of her makeup, and she now sees what she has been hiding. </p><p>She hardly recognises herself anymore. </p><p>The appearance she had once taken so much pride in has faded beyond repair. Her skin is greying, her face has thinned, the bruises that her dress fails to cover stand out against her skin like neon lights in the darkness. </p><p>Elena has been gone for a long, long time. But now, she has lost Hélène. And she cannot find her. </p><p>Her hands are shaky as she opens the bottle, almost dropping it twice. It could be her nerves, it could be the fact that she hasn’t slept in a day and eaten in longer. </p><p>She is not welcomed in this life. Not by her parents. Not by her family. Not by her husband. Not by Moscow. </p><p>If she goes on like this, what will happen? Certainly nothing better than this. She will draw her life to an early end this way, and she does not know how to live in any other way anymore. She forgets how she had lived before, when she was still a girl who still had hope in her own life’s potential. But now she is a woman, wether she likes it or not, who has let herself fall in hopes of finally finding people who love her. Who had let herself be used up until even her identity had been ripped from her. </p><p>And if she keeps living, by some miracle of the universe, she will have a child. A child that Pierre will know is not his. He’ll cast her out then, surely. That will be the last straw for him. Her parents won’t take her back in either. And what will she do? With a baby she knows that she doesn’t want and no way to provide for it. </p><p>There is nothing left for her here. There is nowhere she can turn. There is nothing she can do but this. </p><p>Hélène raises the bottle to her lips, and without a second thought, she empties it of all of its contents. </p><p>For the first time in almost a year, Hélène Bezukhova looks peaceful. She could be sleeping there, an easy mistake to be made by anybody if it weren’t for the empty medicine container in her hand.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It is only on rare occasions that Marya receives letters. Her circles are not the kind of people who need to update one another frequently about their respective goings on. More often than not, they are letters from her goddaughters or their parents on the topic of the girls when she does get any delivered to her, and they usually do not contain matters of any great importance. So, when she receives a letter addressed to her from the Bezukhov household, it raises questions to put it lightly. </p><p>What only furthers her understandable confusion is how important she is told this letter is, being informed in a rushed manner that she does not care for of its supposed urgency. Marya, however, still remains doubtful. Hélène does have a way with words. </p><p>She hasn’t seen the Bezukhovs in a very long time, and the two households have ceased communication entirely all thanks to some wordless decision. She knows nothing of Pierre, rather ashamedly, and more about Hélène than she had ever cared to know, which is probably worse. Her name has made its rounds in Moscow, and even women like Marya who claim to despise such whisperings cannot help but hear. And, well... she’ll never admit to this of course, but she does feel some sort of satisfaction knowing that she had been right about the countess all along. It eliminates any internal conflict she’d had over how she had treated her, any guilt for how she had behaved and what she had called her; now she knows that every word she has ever said about Hélène was true, all of that can disappear for good. </p><p>She opens the letter with low expectations. That is to say, more bluntly, Marya assumes that the letter was from Hélène, and really, what substance could hide in the writings of a woman like that? She almost thought herself right, too. She didn’t recognise the handwriting as Pierre’s, and who else’s could it be in a two person family? They hardly count as even that. </p><p>She rolls her eyes and reluctantly reads ahead, expectations on the floor, only to discover that, to her own great surprise, she had been wrong. Hélène did not write this. She couldn’t have. As much as she would have wanted her to, as much as she would have appreciated another exciting new reason to condemn everything that woman does, even if it was at the expense of Pierre’s stability once again, she could not do so much as pretend this was her writing. </p><p>It soon becomes all too apparent to ignore or justify the letter as Hélène’s work. The way Marya finds she is addressed is too formal, as is the use of language, the professionalism held in every word. Hélène is a relatively well spoken woman from what she recalls, but none of this is formatted like anything remotely similar to how she has ever heard her speak. No, this is not Hélène’s writing. In fact, it is by neither one of the Bezukhovs. The letter was written by a doctor on behalf of Pierre. And written about Elena. </p><p>It takes a moment or two for Marya to fully take in what the message details. But when she does, her blood runs cold, chilling over like the treacherous storms of Moscow beyond her walls. </p><p>Elena is dying. </p><p>Marya stares at those words for what might have been hours of just as easily seconds. She can’t bring herself to read on, frozen in place, until her cry for more information overwhelms her. </p><p>Elena had taken an almost fatal dosage of medication the day before and, by some miracle that she doesn’t deserve, she had survived. Now, she is weak and bedridden, refusing food and not speaking to anyone, sending only for her brother who has not shown up, only progressively worsening her state. </p><p>As Marya reads, an unmistakable sense of fear overcomes her body; fear that she doesn’t want Elena of all people to cause. But she has, and heaven above, it is not for a tame reason, is it? The girl almost died at her own hands and she may still yet. Had she meant to do this? Certainly not. Why would she? What reason would she have had to want to end her own life? As much as everybody had disapproved of her, Elena had always appeared to adore her lifestyle. She had her brother, her friends, her army of men falling at her feet. This can’t have been intentional. But how else could this have happened? What other circumstance could have lead to her overdosing in her own home? </p><p>The letter had called her to the Bezukhov’s house immediately by order of Pierre, and she does not hesitate any longer than she already has. She has to be there, for some reason. She is not an evil person. Her heart does still retain some sympathy for Hélène, because she is a good person beyond her biases. She does not want Elena to die, as much as she may dislike her. She is not as cruel of a woman as some may suspect her to be. </p><p>On the journey there her mind is overrun by thoughts of Hélène, as usual; but it’s not as usual, is it? Nothing about this situation is normal. All she is used to calling normalcy towards that woman is gone entirely. And it is not her anymore, is it? It’s not Hélène. It’s not the woman who she associates with that name. It’s Elena she is thinking of. She can’t help reimagining what she suspects might have happened in her mind. There is one that repeatedly returns to her; the obvious question of why. Why, why, why? </p><p>She is only pulled away from her recurring thoughts when she realises that she has arrived. The journey had passed her by so unnoticeably that she hadn’t felt it begin. </p><p>When she reaches the door, she needs only knock once before it is opened by who she correctly presumes is the same doctor who had sent her that letter less than an hour ago. The man is clearly stressed, under the presumably immense pressure of keeping a countess alive. When he recognises Marya as the woman standing in the doorway, he greets her silently with a respectful bow of his head, but she would rather they skipped past all of this as soon as possible. There are more important matters at hand. </p><p>“Where is she?” </p><p>“In her room. She has been in there for two days now, and she will not-“</p><p>“And Pierre? Where is he in his wife’s time of need?”</p><p>“His study. He visited her when she first awoke, but she has expressed to us a wish not to see him again until she is well. As I detailed in my letter, she wants no guests but her brother.”</p><p>“Why did he call upon me?”</p><p>“I believe he wanted to see you for some support. After all, his wife-“</p><p>“Take me to him.”</p><p>The doctor pauses, surprised by her sudden interruption, but chooses, perhaps for his own safety, not to question her. </p><p>“Right away.”</p><p>Marya is guided to a room she already knows the pathway to as if it were an extension of her own home, with her staying silent all the while. Guilt is keeping her mouth shut and her words held back. Guilt is what scratched its nails over her pale skin and left prominent marks in its rugged tracks. Why hadn’t she thought about Pierre? </p><p>Not yet had she considered how this must have affected Pierre. How could she not once think of him? How dare she give every second to Hélène? She doesn’t deserve it at all! Damn her own weakness or whatever meaningless motivations drove her do whatever she had! She is supposed to hate her. She does hate her. Marya hates her and she shouldn’t have fretted so greatly over her condition when her dear friend Pierre was left uncared for. </p><p>But this guilt is familiar. Oh dear, is it familiar. Has she felt it before? Undeniably so. In fact, she presumes it has not left her for... how long has it been now? When did Hélène visit her? When did she call upon her without invitation? She has tried to block that date from her mind, subconsciously perhaps. But, whenever that had been, the second Hélène had left her, this aching feeling of indescribable guilt has only grown. </p><p>Slowly, steadily and sickeningly, with those thoughts of Hélène that she cannot rid herself of doing nothing but pull her down further and further to whatever level she crawled out from. And in her absence, since she has stayed away from this household and the woman that singularly infests it with her wicked ways, not one thought has she spared for the man she calls her dear friend. Perhaps he had appeared once or twice with Hélène in the forefront of her mind that made her wonder how he was holding up, how he was managing life with her, but it was nothing close to how much involuntary focus she gave to the woman she is supposed to despise. </p><p>Again, the journey entirely passes her by, as considerably shorter as this was, but suddenly she is outside of the study door despite lacking the clear memories of ever walking there. A guilty, guilty woman, she is. Pierre will look right through it. He will read her like those books he must know word for word, off by heart like an actor’s script, he knows her too well not to. They are too close for her guilt, her ugly guilt that has not left her since Hélène’s last visit, not to shine through her snow pale skin. She opens the door by herself, and the doctor can do no more than announce her name. He is gone the moment after, and the two old friends are left alone. </p><p>Pierre doesn’t look as bedraggled as he was when she had last visited him. Nowhere close to his best, but put together enough to be seen. Well, maybe this is his best now. If so, she is not as worried as she recalled herself being. He has been taking some care of himself, at least, not entirely allowing his appearance to be completely neglected. Perhaps Hélène’s frequent absences here have been a benefit for him.  </p><p>“Pierre,” she speaks, her best attempt at a greeting. The air is swimming with tension, and her usual pleasantries for her friends are nowhere to be found. </p><p>“Marya,” he says with a nod, returning her favour almost exactly. He gestures to a chair on the opposite side of his desk, and she sits, facing him eye to eye for the first time in months. Months! It has been that long since she was last in their company then, has it? What has become of the two of them now? </p><p>Her instinct is to make small talk, but she knows how inappropriate that would be for a time like this. This specific situation is not one she is equipped to deal with. She longs for Pierre to break the silence, but as she did expect, he does not. So she swallows down her uncertainty and her nervousness and makes the risky move. </p><p>“How is she?”</p><p>It is just vague enough to comfort her in knowing that he will not react badly to her well intended question. Obviously he knows who she is talking about, it would be an impressive feat not to, but she keeps it all so unspecific that it does not go in too strong right away. </p><p>She watches Pierre intently. He gives his this strange glance that she cannot quite place the meaning of, and then he looks away, down at his desk where there is nothing to examine. </p><p>“She’s... she’s doing better now, I hear,” Pierre finally answers, resting his hand against his forehead. Marya awaits an addition to the first statement, but alas, she does not get one. </p><p>He is in distress. She knows without a second thought. Well, who wouldn’t be? As aware as she is of how much the two have grown to dislike one another, because how couldn’t she be aware of such, the almost loss of one’s wife is not an easy emotion to calm. She cannot blame him for how he has responded. </p><p>She is vividly reminded, all of a sudden, of when her own husband had died. She does not suppose, in retrospect that she had ever loved him beyond how a wife must feel for her husband. But she had certainly been a wreck. It had felt a chore to wake up, knowing that she would always be awakening in the same world that she had fallen asleep in, alone and without a purpose to truly serve. And she will most definitely never forget how she had wept for him. </p><p>But even so, when it was over, all said and done, people had told her that she had recovered remarkably quickly, commented on how swift her return to normal life was, much like how she had been told she was so mature for her young age as a girl. Her husband was too good of a man for her. She had never been a good wife to him either. She felt little true love for him if any. At least, if she had, it did not feel the way love had been so intricately described to her by the world. </p><p>She did not know what to make of those verbal additions then and she feels that she may know even less now, looking at Pierre, who’s wife is alive, tense with stress and worry for a woman who had betrayed him. He is a good man, Marya thinks. Too good of a man for this. </p><p> “Haven’t you seen her?”</p><p>“She’s refusing to see anybody at the moment, which I understand. She’s sent for her brother, but we haven’t received a word back.”</p><p>Of course that’s who she wants. Prior to this Marya was becoming ever more fearful of the fact that one of her initial assumptions about the pair could be true, thanks to all she had heard - unwillingly, of course - about their behaviour together in public. Always at the side of the other with hands wandering too close to places where they shouldn’t be. And if such things are true, it is no surprise that her brother is the only person she will see. No surprise at all. </p><p>“What happened? To her, your wife. How she ended up like this, I mean.”</p><p>Pierre takes a long pause. He looks like he wants a drink more than anything that very second. Personally, Marya can’t blame him. </p><p>“I wasn’t here when it happened, ashamedly. I was visiting an old friend,” he explains, surprising Marya with the fact that he has other friends. “When I returned, a doctor had already been sent for. She...” he pauses again, his voice becoming strained with the threat of tears. “She looked like she was gone to the world already, and I-“</p><p>Marya reaches out and gently places her hand over Pierre’s in a gesture she hopes is comforting. </p><p>“She is going to be fine. I promise you that,” Marya states with a certain confidence that she has no right in having, telling her friend something that she cannot be certain of. “I don’t claim to know much about your marriage, but from what I’ve seen of Elena, she will not go down without a fight.”</p><p>Pierre nods, the slightest trace of a smile appearing on his face for half a second, maybe less. Marya returns the favour before slowly sliding her hand away from his. There is one question still pulling at her, but looking at Pierre, how greatly this whole ordeal has affected him, it would not be a wise question to ask. </p><p>“And how are you, Pierre?” she asks instead. “I know how much of a shock this must have been for you on top of everything else that woman has put you through. If you need help with anything, my servants can take the place of yours while they tend to Elena, I can-“</p><p>“No. No, Marya, but thank you. I am alright, really.” Pierre insists. Marya sighs. </p><p>“Alright by your standards, yes, but from my perspective you’ve been letting yourself crumble like an ancient pillar worn away by time. You are not well, Pierre, and as your friend, I think you should know that I am concerned for you.”</p><p>This time, Pierre does not respond to her. His gaze moves once more downwards, once again staring at his sturdy desk still with not a thing upon it to justify drawing in his focus. The silence that overcomes the room is uncomfortable, but Pierre will not speak no matter how much Marya wills him internally to do so. Has she overstepped a boundary here? Has she said something that was not yet welcomed? Had her words of genuine concern come across as antagonising? </p><p>“I’ll be taking my leave, if you don’t mind. I give my best wishes to your wife.”</p><p>She had intended to apologise, but despite her wishes, her words had caught in her throat. With that simple statement in its place, Marya stands, with an unpleasant feeling of still having something left unsaid. Guilt still reaches for her soul from inside of her body, as if Hélène’s hands have found her even in this room. What else can she do? There is nothing that she has left to say. Nothing that Pierre will want to hear. So, as they exchange one more look, Marya silently exits the room. </p><p>As she walks down one of the long hallways, passing rooms with shut doors, Marya once again encounters that same doctor she had met upon her arrival stepping out of the doorway of another room. The two almost crash into each other, their minds clearly away from them, entirely occupied by other things. It is Marya who stops herself in her tracks before their bodies collide, and the man is taken aback by her very presence before him as if he had forgotten she were here. </p><p>“Oh, goodness, my apologies!” the doctor is quick to blurt out. “I didn’t see you, I’m sorry, my mind is currently elsewhere.”</p><p>“It’s quite alright,” she reassures him, “I find my own to be quite the same. I hadn’t expected you to still be here.”</p><p>“I am concluding my time here today now. I just need to inform the Count of the Countess’ current condition and then I‘ll be on my way.”</p><p>The countess. Marya glances over at the closed door the man stood before her had just left. That is where Hélène is, no doubt. That is the room in which Hélène has been hidden away in, fragile and weaker than she should ever be. Alone in her room, refusing to eat and allowing herself to slowly succumb to whatever it was she had done to herself. All of a sudden, as she pictures Hélène as how she must currently be, Marya finds that she is struggling to breathe. </p><p>Marya, staring at the door as Pierre had at his desk, is overwhelmed by an inherent need to go in. To see Hélène, to speak to Hélène, to be in the same room as her again with motivation she doesn’t comprehend. To know that she is living and breathing and as well as she could possibly be within the realms of reality. She has to be there with her. She has to hear her voice. She has to touch her skin. She has to be next to Hélène. </p><p>Her chest feels as if it is compressing her organs within her body. Her gaze is locked on the door, harsh and unblinking, her nails pressing against the skin of her palms in fists that she did not remember forming. What drives her? What divine power is calling her to be so suddenly at Hélène’s side?</p><p>“Are you alright?”</p><p>The doctor’s words put a dent in Marya’s trance, but they do not tear her eyes or her focus away from that door. The door she knows Hélène is behind. </p><p>“The Countess is in there, is she?”</p><p>“Yes, she requested we move her from the Count’s bedroom when she first regained her consciousness.”</p><p>“Let me see her.”</p><p>Marya’s words, even to herself, feel unexpected. The doctor’s brow furrows before he denies her request with a professional shake of his head. </p><p>“I’m sorry, but I can’t allow that. The Countess has made it clear that she-“</p><p>“You misunderstand me,” Marya interrupts, an action that she would typically condemn. “I wasn’t asking.”</p><p>Marya’s intimidating nature was once something that she had tried to rid herself of. As a girl, she had worried that her naturally imposing disposition would prevent her from ever getting herself a good husband. She feared that men would be afraid of her as her parents had warned, and that God had not designed women to behave in such a way. Raising her voice or using her height and naturally stony expressions to her advantage was frowned upon at best. </p><p>Now, though, as a grown woman with plenty of life experience to judge off of and her fear of judgement mostly diminished, Marya has formed a different opinion. It is good, in some cases, to use her almost instinctual ways against those who may deserve it. Often times, no drastic measures are needed, as her very presence seems to threaten most people that she encounters whenever she allows it to. This is one of those instances. And the doctor has not wronged her, of course not. But he is keeping her from something that her mind is telling her that she has to do, and she cannot have that, can she?</p><p>The doctor opens his mouth in protest, but the older woman’s eyes silence him. She hardly requires any real change to her usual expression. He almost cowers beneath her stare, stepping slightly to one side with the smallest of nods. </p><p>Marya thanks the man, dismisses him, and waits until he has left to call upon Pierre in his study before approaching the door. As she places her palm upon the hand, she can feel her chest tightening once more, her mouth becoming dry. What is this? Nerves? What has she to be nervous about? She’s met this woman, it’s not as if she will be in the presence of some powerful stranger. Besides, Hélène will be asleep, if she is correct in her assumptions. There is nothing for her to be nervous about here. Gripping the door handle with an unusual amount of force, Marya inhales deeply and closes her eyes. </p><p>Enter the room. Check on Hélène. Calm whatever compulsion it is that is pushing her to do this. Leave, and pray for her recovery. That is all she has to do. </p><p>With a forced sense of courage, Marya opens the door. </p><p>The room feels colder than the rest of the house, even with the window shut and the curtains drawn. Somehow, the atmosphere in this particular area of the building has shifted into something different entirely. Despite knowing the presence of another woman is apparent in the room with her, it feels terrifyingly empty, and she feels disturbingly isolated in the silence that surrounds her as Hélène’s blankets surround her. </p><p>Marya shuts the door quietly as possible behind her, and at last turns her focus to the bed in the centre of the room, headboard against the wall. She cannot make Hélène out entirely, none of her discernible features visible as her form is hidden away by the bedsheets she has presumably pulled over herself. As she had thought, Hélène is asleep. </p><p>At her bedside sits a chair where the doctor must have been sitting, doing whatever had to be done to ensure that Hélène is still alive. She is, as Marya can tell by the slight rise and fall her form makes beneath the sheets. She’s as well as she could be, given the circumstance she has found herself in, shallow as her breaths do sound. So, by all accounts, Marya should be leaving. </p><p>And yet, she does not. </p><p>Marya’s body moves without her willing it to, drawn as if by a magnetic force to Hélène’s bedside. Her thoughts cease, at least for now, entirely void as this woman and a primal need to be near her overcomes her being in a way that she thought she had escaped long ago. </p><p>She shouldn’t be here. Marya shouldn’t be here. She knows she shouldn’t. Hélène is not her friend. Not even her close acquaintance. Their last interaction ended on terms as bad as they get. Hélène had broken into her home, Marya had called her all manner of things. True as they may be, it was still impolite of her, and it had still formed an irreversible rift between her and the countess. So why is she here? She is asleep for now, but what if she awakens? What would she say? How would she explain herself here? She wouldn’t not want her to be here. She does not want anybody besides her brother here, but Marya specifically is very low on her potential guest list, as she would imagine. </p><p>Her panic is silent even in her mind, while her body directs her into the chair beside the sleeping Hélène. In the eerie quiet of the room she can hear the soft sounds of Hélène’s breathing, a comforting confirmation that she is, in fact, still alive.  Marya, now noticing how her own breaths had become short and bordering on irregularity, finds that she can slow her own with as good confirmation of Hélène’s safety laying right in front of her. </p><p>Why is she so affected by this? Hélène is living and breathing, alive and well as she can be after what happened. So why does her heart still feel pressed against her rib cage, pounding beyond her control? Why are her nails still digging into the pale skin of her palms? Why does she care so much about this woman’s safety?</p><p>The stare she previously had locked on the closed doorway has returned, but the object of attention has changed. Now, every fibre of her being lays upon Hélène’s sleeping face. Barely visible, but all the same, what she can observe is so incomprehensibly striking. She had forgotten that. How no matter what, Hélène always commanded attention. </p><p>But now, she does not look like the Hélène that she remembers haunting her at night and keeping her awake. In fact, there is not a trace of Hélène at all. Her expression is calm and relaxed, her motives that Marya once suspected her of having invisible or gone entirely. Her curls are tied back loosely in one braid, some small loose strands gently falling across her face, moving ever so slightly with her faint breathing. Hélène is entirely gone from this scene. The girl occupying that bed is Elena. A peaceful, graceful Elena. </p><p>And yet, as positive as they appear upon the surface, not all of the changes are this pleasant. The girl’s skin is pale, too pale to be natural or healthy given her usual tone, her eyes closed and underlined by dark circles. She has lost weight, too. Another unhealthy amount. Her cheekbones jut out from her profile like stalagmites in a cave, her wrist and fingers displaying bones that her greying flesh clings to as her hand hangs over the edge of the bed. </p><p>Marya’s own stomach twists at the sight of it all, the sensation of a hand that does not exist clutching her throat within it’s grasp. She is alive, but only by the skin of her teeth. Soon enough, after seconds of watching Elena, who lays there before her still and unmoving, the slight rise and fall of her body and the sounds of her breathing cannot keep her calm. It is not enough now, it does not prove definitively enough now, in Marya’s mind, that Elena is alive. A pulse, perhaps, may relax her. </p><p>Without a single second thought, Marya reaches forwards to grab Elena’s wrist, and Hélène’s eyes open.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Happy new year everybody!</p><p>My apologies for taking a while to finish this chapter, I will try to have the next one finished than this one!</p><p>I would also like to thank you all for the incredibly supportive comments. This fis is a lot of work for me and it is all of the support I receive from you that keeps me motivated to continue writing whenever I find myself unmotivated. You are all so lovely and I hope you keep on enjoying the rest of my work!</p>
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